


The Emptiness We Leave Behind

by anonniemouse



Category: Gorillaz
Genre: Developing Relationship, Eventual Romance, Eventual Sex, M/M, Phase 5 epilogue, Phases 1 - 3, Pre-Phase 1, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-12
Updated: 2019-05-07
Packaged: 2019-05-21 11:54:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 21
Words: 37,564
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14914901
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anonniemouse/pseuds/anonniemouse
Summary: A reflection on the relationship between Murdoc and 2D, starting from the moment they first met.





	1. The Day You Fucked Everything Up

Your name is Murdoc Niccals, and you really didn’t mean to hit that kid.

 

It was just another beautiful August day and you had been cruising downtown with a few of your friends. Would you really consider them your _friends_? _Friends_ is such a strong word. You prefer to call them your _accomplices_ or _acquaintances_ or _people who you can actually stand to be around for more than a few minutes._

 

Anyways, like you had mentioned before, it was a beautiful August day. There was a slight breeze in the air, some shitty pop song blasting on the radio - _dammit you really hate this song_ \- and the goal of stealing some shit from that store (What was it called? Something something Organ Emporium. Weird.) within close reach.

 

You usually don’t go around stealing stuff but you’re kinda desperate at the moment. You can’t manage to hold a band together for more than a month. You’ve spent most of your money on booze and birds, the only two pleasures in your life other than music. And your landlord keeps threatening to kick you out of your ramshackle apartment because of your possession of many questionable substances and the fact that you ‘make too much noise’. You can’t help it that you come back from the bars and sometimes feel the need to drunkenly play your bass at 3 in the morning. It just happens and there’s nothing you can do about it.

 

But yeah, you’re pretty pathetic. You usually don’t need to depend on others for anything, but the threat of being evicted from your apartment was what made you begrudgingly decide to seek out certain people in back alleys at night that all seemed to go by the pseudonym of “Snake” or “Bone” to discuss plans to pull off heists and other shit. 

One good thing, you’ve discovered, about being a full-time criminal is that you’re never alone. There’s always someone who’s stupid enough to help you out and be the bait and the distraction. But this time, this heist is different. This time there ain’t gonna be some buffoon pretending to have a heart attack on the floor while you pick locks and shove fancy necklaces down your pants. This time is gonna be _big._

 

 You’d stolen things before (like the car you’re in) but that was easy stuff, child’s play. Ram-raiding in the middle of town in broad daylight was much more difficult than just driving off in someone’s unlocked Vauxhall Astra. It was much riskier. But you’re Murdoc Niccals, and you ain’t fazed by the challenge.

 

You originally hated the plan. It meant causing possible damage to your beautiful (stolen) car and you really didn’t wanna drive around some beat-up piece a shit. But the two morons who now reside in the backseat of your car said that the money you’d be making after getting your hands on the sweetest new music equipment for your (currently nonexistent) band would cover the costs. So you agreed. Like you mentioned earlier, you were desperate for cash.

 

So there you were, a wicked grin on your face, adrenaline coursing through your veins, the sun glinting off the glass window in front of you. One of the two goons who sat in the backseat let out a loud whoop and the other one looked like he was going to vomit. You screwed your eyes shut and your car met the window with a sickening crash. It was a lot louder than you thought. But yet again, you’ve never driven a car through a window before so you didn’t really know what to expect.

 

There were many things you didn’t expect to happen. For example, you didn’t expect the Backseat Twits (you liked to refer to them by that name) to actually stay buckled up. At least they knew seatbelt safety even if they didn’t know how to count without using their fingers or spell out their own names. You also didn’t expect Backseat Twit #2 to actually throw up all over the backs of the fancy leather seats. If you ended up not being arrested after this stunt, you decided you would punch him in the face a few times and force him to clean up your car. You’ve had experience with many body fluids before, but puke ain’t one of the ones you wanna be messing with. But the biggest thing you didn’t expect was for that scrawny blue-haired kid to be standing right in the path of your car like a deer in headlights. And like most deer that happen to be caught in the headlights of a car, his face gets run over and your car skids into a counter and finally screeches to a stop. That was certainly not part of the plan.

 

When your car finally stops, you frantically open the door, clamber out of the car, and stare down at the kid you hit. He’s lying there, not moving, and you gulp. There’s a lot of crimes you’ve committed, but murder ain’t one of them and ain’t one you plan on committing. You’re known for a lot of things but you certainly don’t wanna be known as the guy who murdered that poor kid.

 

You stare at the kid. He can’t be older than 20, and that just makes you feel worse than you already do. The other employees in the store are gawking and one of them is calling the police or the ambulance or both and Backseat Twit #1 pulls at your arm saying shit like, “Murdoc, we gotta run if we don’t wanna get caught,” and “So what if the kid’s dead? I’m gonna leave. If you’re thrown in jail, don’t blame me.” You want to leave. You really do. But your feet are somehow staying put.

 

You crouch down to check if the kid’s breathing. Thankfully, he is. You then take a closer look at the damage you’ve done. With a strange gentleness you didn’t know you possessed, you sweep back some of his bloodstained blue hair to stare at the mess you made of his face. His face is covered in blood but the worst part is his left eye, which is this unnatural strange black color. You prod it to see if you can register a reaction from the kid, but all you get is a hitch in his breathing and you decide not to do anything else at the moment because you really want him to keep breathing normally and stay alive. Like you said before, you ain’t a murderer.

 

Police sirens wail in the distance, and you turn back to look at your accomplices. But they are long gone, and you mentally curse them out for ditching you. Why didn’t you leave with them? Why are you still here?

 

Before you can answer those questions, the store erupts into chaos as the police arrives, the paramedics following. You step away from the kid, your head spinning, and everything feels so hazy and surreal, like it’s a dream. You really hope it’s a dream. And you hope that you’re waking up really soon.

 

It isn’t a dream. The bold wave of harsh reality washes over as your face is pressed against your dented car and handcuffs are forced onto your wrists. “Kinky,” you hiss, trying to make light of the whole situation. But the policeman doesn’t seem to appreciate your humor, because your head is banged against the car again and you grumble to yourself annoyedly.

 

As the police lead you out of the store, you look back to try to see if the kid’s waking up or doing alright. They’re loading him into the ambulance, and you let out the breath you didn’t know you had been holding. _He’s gonna be alright._

 

You, however, don’t know whether or not you will be alright. You have no idea of what kind of punishments lie in store for you. Rotting away in jail really ain’t much of a life, and it does nothing to further your nonexistent career as a musician.

 

Your name is Murdoc Niccals, and for once in your life, you’re feeling a bit unsure.


	2. The Burdens Of Caring For A Vegetablized Teenager

Your name is Murdoc Niccals and you really hate the legal system.

 

You thought you’d be thrown in jail for at least 15 years. Instead, you have to do thirty-fucking-thousand hours of community service. But that’s not all, no. You also have to spend at least 10 hours _minimum_ per day taking care of the catatonic blue-haired kid whose face you ran over. Community service is a fair punishment, but in your opinion, caring for the kid is _torture._ It’s also rather stupid, seeing you were kinda the one who ran over his face in the first place. You’d honestly rather be in jail wasting away.

 

Both you and the kid’s parents protested loudly against this, but the judge was final in his say and so that’s why you’re stuck babysitting a wheelchair-bound vegetablized teenager in your own apartment rather than going out drinking and picking up a bird or two.  

 

You groan and flop back onto your bed, which is broken from an incident a few months ago that you refuse to speak of. You reach under your bed and pull out your precious bass, strumming a few notes. You look back at the kid - his name is Stuart Pot, what a stupid name - watching to see if you can get a reaction out of him. He doesn’t react. Go figure.

 

Annoyed, you set down your bass, take off your shoe, and throw it at him. The shoe makes a funny sound as it bounces off his face and you chuckle. You take off your other shoe and throw it at him again. It makes the same weird thunk noise. You grin, and begin finding other useless objects on your apartment floor that you can toss at poor ol’ Stu. It becomes a game, a game of _which object makes the funniest noise_ and _which object will bruise the hardest_ and _which object can knock him out of the wheelchair._

 

A knock on your door startles you and you set down the half-empty bucket of pretzels you were about to toss at him.

 

“What do y’want?” you growled. “I’m busy.”

 

“You’re not in jail?” came the response.

 

Of course. Like a visit from the Backseat Twits was something you needed. But they’re already here so there’s no point in sending them away, so you get to your feet and unlock the door.

 

“If I was in jail, dipshit, would I be talkin’ to you?” You step back to let them in and slam the door aggressively. The two glance around your greasy smelly mess of an apartment until their gaze rests on Stu, who’s on the floor with his skinny arse in the air and his face smushed into what looked like a sock that hadn’t been washed for a few decades. It probably hadn’t. You rarely wash your socks.

 

“What’s he doing here? Ain’t he dead?” Backseat Twit #2 asks, prodding Stuart’s head with the toe of his boot.

 

Backseat Twit #1 looks at you with a concerned expression. “Muds, keepin’ dead bodies in your apartment ain’t good. Maybe y’need time to regain your sanity.”

 

“He ain’t dead,” you say, reaching down to move the sock out from under Stu’s head. “Just a bloody vegetable.”

 

“Y’sure? Because the kid ain’t movin’. He’s just layin’ there,” says Backseat Twit #2.

 

“I’m sure. He’s breathin’. He sometimes makes noises. His eyes sometimes open which is really fuckin’ creepy.” You fling the sock across the room, grimacing. For someone who doesn’t shower, you’re usually accustomed to bad smells, but that sock…that sock smelled _putrid._

 

“If he just lays there while you do nothin’ all day, can’t we go out for a drink or two? The court won’t know.” Backseat Twit #1 replies.

 

“It’s not just me sittin’ and watchin’ him,” you say. “I actually have to do shit.”

 

Backseat Twit #1 scoffs. “Like what?”

 

“Well,” you respond, a bit uncomfortably. “I have to make sure his injuries ain’t gettin’ infected, and I gotta sometimes feed him…”

 

The Backseat Twits double over with laughter, and you feel the urge to kick their fat arses out of your apartment. “What else? Do y’have to bathe him? Change his diaper?”

 

“Fuck you,” you snarl.

 

Backseat Twit #1, snorting with laughter, looks you dead in the eye and tries to make a serious face. “This is what’s gonna happen if you keep shagging birds unprotected, Muds. You’re gonna have to take care of kids like him. Except it’s gonna be for 18 fuckin’ years and they ain’t gonna be vegetables...”

 

Boiling with rage, you lash out and your fist collides with the horsey face belonging to Backseat Twit #1. “Shut up, both of you! It wasn’t my idea to crash my car through a bloody window. You both said I’d be gettin’ money out a this, and all I got was 30-fucking-thousand hours of community service and a fuckin’ dent-faced half-dead teenager. It should be the both of ya who should be luggin’ around this stupid faceache, not me.”

 

The Backseat Twits look at each other. Backseat Twit #2 puts a meaty hand on your shoulder. “Muds, calm down. You probably just need to relax! Carry the kid along with ya to the bar. Maybe fresh air would be nice for him or somethin’.”

 

You sigh. Maybe he’s onto something. “Alright, fine,” you say, awkwardly lifting Stuart up by his noodley arms and dumping him into his wheelchair. His head flops forward, and you carefully push it into a semi-normal looking position. His eyelids flutter, and you freeze for a second before remembering that it was normal for that to happen and that it didn’t mean he was waking up. You then, with much difficulty, steer Stu’s wheelchair out the door. The Backseat Twits follow, slamming and locking your door behind them.

 

After much of a hassle, you manage to get the wheelchair downstairs which was pretty much just you and the Backseat Twits shoving poor Stuart down the stairs and betting on how many seconds it would take before he fell out (it was five seconds). You all decide to walk to a nearby bar rather than drive because you don’t think that you could fit the wheelchair into your now-beaten up car or the Backseat Twits’ fancy little muscle car.

 

You enter the bar with the same expression you usually wear, the expression saying _buy me a few drinks and I’ll give you the ride of your life_. Except the aesthetic you carry with you is kind of ruined by the wheelchair containing Stuart Pot that you’re struggling to push. You swear under your breath and saddle up to the bar, tapping your ragged fingernails on the counter.

 

The bartender greets you with a nod of his head. “Nice to see you again, Murdoc. I assume you’ll be having the usual?”

 

You nod, pulling a pack of cigarettes out of your jeans pocket. You light up a cigarette and offer one to the bartender, who respectfully declines. “So,” he says, preparing your drink. “Rumor has it that you killed a kid two weeks ago.”

 

You tense up just the slightest. “It’s a lie,” you say, exhaling smoke into the bartender’s face quite rudely. “The kid’s alive and he’s right there.” You gesture to Stuart and accidentally poke his weird black eye.

 

“He don’t look alive,” the bartender states, handing you your drink. You take a sip and peek into the cup.

 

“Needs more vodka.” You slide the cup towards the bartender, and he pops open a vodka bottle and pours some into your cup, sliding it back to you. You take another sip, and nod. “Better.”

 

The bartender doesn’t acknowledge your lack of manners, and just goes to pour himself a drink. “Why you wheeling around a dead kid?”

 

“He ain’t dead,” you snap. “He’s just vegetablized.”

 

The bartender seems confused by the use of the word _vegetablized._ You had forgotten how dim-witted he was.

 

He shrugs, and stares at Stuart. “He’s lookin’ at me.”

 

“He can’t see you,” you respond. “It’s just a thing that sometimes happens. His eyes will open a little or he’ll make a noise but he’s still unconscious.” You take another drag of your cigarette.

 

“S’creepy,” says the bartender. “What happened to his eye? It’s weird-lookin’.”

 

“The doctors called it an ‘eight-ball fracture’. Apparently his eye filled up with blood and that’s what’s makin’ it all black.” You chug the rest of your drink and slide your cup over to the bartender for a refill.

 

“Well, it’s spooky,” the bartender replies. “Does he…want anything to drink?”

 

You let out a laugh that sounds like a cat being strangled and turn to Stuart. “Well, ain’t ya gonna answer the nice ol’ bartender, Stu? It’s rude to not say anythin’.”

 

Stuart, like always, just stares blankly. You slap him across the face, and he just limply sits there like a rag doll, his head lolling to one side. Still laughing, you tip him out of the wheelchair and he flops onto the ground.

 

The bartender says nothing. He’s used to your antics by now. “Typical Murdoc behavior,” you hear him mumble under his breath, and you clear your throat quite loudly, letting him know that you heard him.

 

You grip your drink tightly in one hand and stab out your cigarette into the counter with the other hand. This little trip to the bar has not been relaxing at all. You scan around the bar for the Backseat Twits to tell them you’re leaving, but they are nowhere to be found. Great. Just great.

 

You then feel a hand tap your shoulder. You whip around to see this pretty blonde bird standing next to you, a smile on her red lips that said _I am quite intoxicated._ “Is anybody sitting there?” she asks, gesturing to the seat next to you.

 

“Nope,” you reply. You kick Stuart out of the way and rest your elbow on the table, a flirtatious grin on your face.

 

She settles down on the stool next to you, smiling. You begin making small talk with her, which leads to you buying her a drink, which leads to drunken flirting and her lips on your lips and soon you’re putting the bartender in charge of Stuart for the time being and you and the bird saunter out of the bar and back towards your apartment.

 

The bartender sighs, and walks around to pull Stuart off of the floor and back up into his wheelchair. The kid’s bruised and battered and looks like hell. The bartender grimaces. “Gross,” he says. “Looks like Murdoc hasn’t been doin’ the best job of takin’ care of you.” Stuart’s eyelids flutter a bit and his head flops forward. The bartender tips the blue-haired teenager’s head back. “There we go.”

 

He settles down on a stool next to Stuart. “So,” he says pensively. “Murdoc says you were _vegetablized._ What kind a vegetable are you? A carrot? A broccoli? A zucchini?”

 

Stuart, like always, doesn’t respond.

 

“Carrot it is then,” the bartender says, chuckling.

 

If Stuart was awake he would have laughed.


	3. The Only Time You’re Relatively Nice Is When You’re Drunk

Your name is Murdoc Niccals and you have ditched your charge so you can go fuck a girl.

 

You never knew how much you needed a break from staring at stupid Stuart’s stupid face. _I should really do this every night,_ you think to yourself. _Get a drink, or two, or three, shag a bird, ditch the kid at the bar where people could possibly find him and recognize who he is and you could go to jail…_

 

Wait, what? You freeze, the bird still in your bed, your clothes discarded on the floor. You prod the bird awake. “You gotta go,” you tell her. “I got shit I need to take care of.”

 

She sniffs, visibly offended, and picks her stuff up off of your greasy apartment carpet. She pulls on her clothes and exits, slamming the door. You kinda deserve that slam. You wish she would have stayed longer, but of course you have to attend to poor ol’ Stu.

 

You glance at the clock radio near your bed, which reads 1:12 in the morning. Lovely. You hope that in the two hours you’ve been gone, the kid’s been fine and nothing happened. You’re in quite a foul mood and you really don’t want to be heading to jail today.

 

You pull on a pair of pants, and shut the door, shuffling down the stairs and down the street towards the bar. It’s chilly outside, but you don’t feel the crisp breeze because you’re Murdoc Niccals, and you don’t get cold.

 

You finally arrive at the bar, which is visibly much more empty now than it was before. You let out a sigh of relief when you see Stuart sitting in his wheelchair, his head slumped forward. You don’t bother thanking the bartender for watching the kid. Manners are not your thing. You awkwardly maneuver the wheelchair out of the bar, swearing at it the whole way back to your apartment. Why are those bloody things so hard to steer? But you’re kinda thankful for the unsteerability of them, seeing that it makes for a good excuse when the doctors ask why the kid’s got so many bruises. You can just say he fell out or that you lost control of it. People will believe anything you say if you use a convincing enough voice.

 

You then realize there’s a bit of an issue. It was easy enough to get Stuart _down_ the stairs, but _up_ the stairs is a different story. There’s no way you can wheel the kid up the stairs without him falling or the wheelchair falling or you falling. You ponder for a bit, then grumble to yourself as you come up with an idea. You awkwardly pick up the kid by his skinny legs and drag him up the stairs. You really don’t need to put in much effort to lift him; he seems to weigh next to nothing. You sling him over your shoulder once you reach the top step and unlock the door to your apartment. You toss him into a pile of clothes on your floor and shamble back downstairs to lug his wheelchair up the stairs. After a few minutes of struggling, you manage to pull the wheelchair upstairs and into your apartment. You crawl into bed, trying to get a little bit of sleep, when the kid lets out a tiny squeaking noise from where he’s laying in a pile of clothes on your floor.

 

“What d’ya want this time?” you ask, reaching under your bed for some booze. “I’m busy trying to get myself drunk into oblivion.”

 

His eyelids flicker, and one of his fingers moves slightly.

 

“Y’know, Stu, you kinda ruined my life,” you say, taking a sip of your drink. “I was gonna make it big. I was gonna have a world-famous band and I wasn’t gonna need to steal anything because I’d have a fuckton of money. I would be travelin’ and I’d move far far away from my shitstain of a father. I would go out in the evenings with my bandmates and we’d get drinks and maybe shag some birds. It would be fuckin’ perfect.” You pause. “But no, you had to stand in the way of my car and get your face run over and fall into some coma and break your eyeball. You couldn’t have just moved out of the way. You had to just stand there paralyzed in fear like a bloody deer.”

 

You laugh, a maniacal laugh that would scare most small children. “You’re just as skinny as a deer too,” you snicker, reaching over and jabbing him in the ribs quite aggressively. “Y’look more like a skeleton than a human.”

 

He lets out another pathetic noise, all sad and squeaky. You sigh. “Listen, kid, I don’t want you bein’ here, and I know if you were awake you wouldn’t wanna be here either. But I guess we’re stuck with each other for now and you’re just gonna have to deal with me and I’m gonna have to deal with you.”

 

You take a seat on the floor next to him, finishing your booze. You lean back into the pile, stretching your arms above your head. You turn to look at Stuart, whose hand is twitching weirdly. You slowly take his hand and hold it steady to stop the shaking. His hand finally stills and you place it back onto the pile. You then decide to take a closer look at his face to see how he’s healing and if his eye is looking any better. Sweeping wisps of blue hair away from his pretty face, your fingers trace over the bruises on his cheeks and his forehead. Your stomach drops just the slightest when you realize that most of those bruises were purposefully made by you.

 

You don’t say sorry. Apologizing ain’t your thing, but you do allow yourself one minute of wallowing in guilt. Once you finish being guilty, you recompose yourself and turn back to Stu. “I hope you wake up real soon,” you say, your voice husky. “Then I can go off and live my life. Maybe I can actually get a band together for once. Do y’play any instruments? You probably do, seein’ that you worked at that music store. Maybe if you wake up, then I could create another band and if y’were talented enough, I might just let you join. Just an idea.”

 

He squeaks again, and you notice his eyes tearing up a bit. “Didn’t know y’could still cry,” you say, becoming annoyed again. You’re not annoyed at him, per se, you just get annoyed when people cry in general. An old friend of yours said your annoyance was because you didn’t know how to properly release your own emotions, but you don’t agree. You just have a better grip on your feelings and you don’t ever feel the need to cry and let out your emotions like a distressed teenage girl.

 

You gently wipe away the tears with your thumb, purposefully poking his injured eye. “You’re quite the mess, Stu,” you say to him, getting up and pulling another bottle of booze from underneath your bed. You chuckle to yourself, a sort of chuckle that sounds like a goose being stabbed.

 

You play with a strand of his blue hair, twisting it around your fingers. Such a curious color. From what you’ve seen of the hair everywhere else during the times you’ve awkwardly changed his clothes and sponge bathed him, it’s all that same shade of blue. You suppose he’s just a natural blue. Either that or he’s been doing some deeply disturbing shit with hair dye. You shudder at the idea. You’ve seen a lot of fucked-up shit in your life, but that would probably take the cake. Yecch. You prefer to stick to the idea of him being a natural blue. But how did that even work? Maybe he was just born with some weird colorful defect, like that children’s movie about the deer with the glowing red nose.

  


You chug the rest of your booze, and punt the bottle across the room, where it collides with a wall and shatters. Swearing quite loudly, you mentally remind yourself to clean that up later so you don’t end up stepping on broken glass because you’ve done it before and it hurts like a motherfucker. But you’re too drunk and too lazy to do it at the moment, so you just shamble over to the light switch near the door and flick off the lights. “G’night, faceache,” you say, climbing into bed.

 

Stuart, like usual, doesn’t say anything in response. He just lays there facedown in the pile of dirty laundry you dumped him in.

  


“Heh. Classic Stuart,” you say, grinning the sort of grin that says _I have no problem causing bodily harm to people_.

 

You roll over onto your back, feeling frustrated yet sort of content. You try to piece together coherent thoughts about why you feel this way, but you’re way too drunk to even think. So instead you just lay there, staring at the ceiling, until before you know it, you’re asleep.


	4. The Day You Fuck Things Up Again But Not As Badly

Your name is Murdoc Niccals, and boy you are really in for it this time.

 

It had been six months since you started toting around Stuart like a pretty blue unconscious handbag, and you were so sick of it. You hated feeding him and clothing him and dragging him along with you, especially when you were looking to get a bird or two. Nobody wanted to approach you after hearing what had happened to make you start having to pull around the kid.

 

Backseat Twit #1 had approached you that morning and asked if you wanted to go for a joyride down in Nottingham. You agreed. Maybe an adrenaline rush would make you feel less tense. You upgraded Backseat Twit #1 to the passenger seat and dumped Stuart in the backseat, not bothering to buckle him up because it was funny how he’d flop about back there every time you turned a corner.

 

Driving way above the speed limit really did alleviate your stress, you learned. It felt so nice to be at the wheel of your car and not be sitting in your dinky apartment trying to force-feed a teenage vegetable. Speaking of Stuart, you turn your head quickly to see him flopping about in the backseat. You snicker and begin driving faster, but Backseat Twit #1 tugs at your arm and says, “Hey Muds, dontcha think we should get outta the road or somethin’? Don’t wanna be causin’ any accidents today.” You nod and sharply turn into a nearby car park with a screech of your tires and slowing your pace.

 

You loop around the car park a few times, picking back up speed, high on the adrenaline. You then begin pulling some quite snazzy 360 donuts. A crowd of girls begins to gather near the edge of the car park, clearly impressed. You roll down your windows and wink at them, a flirtatious grin on your face, which sends them into a flurry of giggles.

 

But you’re so caught up in trying to impress those birds that you take your foot off the brake for a grand finale and you look back at them for just a second and your car slams into a metal pole. There’s a really loud crash and your face bangs into the steering wheel and you screw your eyes tightly shut because you’re not really ready to die yet.

 

You open your eyes to see glass everywhere and Backseat Twit #1 cursing and the windshield wrecked and _are you fucking kidding me_. Somehow Stuart managed to crash through the bloody windshield and get run over _again_. This kid seems to have some really really bad luck.

 

 _Oh shit, please don’t let him be dead,_ you think _._ Not because you have a soft spot for him or anything, just that you don’t want the court getting legal on your arse and sending you to jail for the rest of your miserable life.

 

You look back at the birds you were trying to impress before your fancy car tricks were interrupted. The group just stands there, their mouths open, staring at the mess of your car and the mess of Stuart, who’s lying in a gory heap on the ground.

 

A tiny voice inside your head lecturing you about seatbelt safety and how if you took the time to put the kid’s seatbelt on, then he wouldn’t be possibly dead for real. You mentally reply with the intellectual response of _Fuck seatbelt safety_. What an intelligent clapback.

 

You fling open the door to your car and scramble out with urgency. You race over to where Stuart had finally stopped - _he skidded on his face for almost a half-mile_ \- and kneel down at his side, pressing your hand against his chest to see if you can feel a heartbeat. You are more than relieved to find that his heart is beating and he’s breathing and he’s so fucking alive, thank Satan. You, Murdoc Niccals, are not going to jail for murder.

 

You then walk numbly back to where Backseat Twit #1 is standing, shocked. “Is he, y’know…dead?”

 

“No, idiot,” you scoff. “If he was dead I would’ve taken the car and gotten the fuck outta here before I got arrested again.”

 

“Um, Muds?” Backseat Twit #1 says slowly.

 

“Is there something you bloody want?” you snap, quite annoyed at yourself for crashing the car and ruining your chance of bringing at least one of those birds back to your apartment.

 

“It’s the kid,” Backseat Twit #1 responds, his voice quavering.

 

“What about him?” you snarl.

 

Backseat Twit #1 swallows the lump in his throat. “He’s moving.”

 

You turn back to look at Stuart, and soon it’s your turn to be shocked. Somehow the impact from the accident revived him from his vegetablized state, and he’s slowly getting to his feet shakily, his back turned to you. You begin to edge towards him when he turns around and you stop, rigid. _You have got to be shitting me_. It seems that the accident caused him to fracture his other eye. 

 

But that’s not a bad thing, not at all. You look at him, and he looks at you, and you think to yourself, _He’s perfect. Tall, pretty, blue spiky hair…no eyeballs. He has to be the frontman for my band._

 

“Hi,” he squeaks.

 

You say nothing, just stare at him, dumbfounded.

He shivers in the cold February air. “Where am I?”

 

“You’re in some random car park in Nottingham,” you reply.

 

“What happened?”

 

You sigh. “Well, last August I drove my car into your face accidentally and you were in a coma.”

 

“I was? How long was I out?” he asks.

 

“A thousand years,” you say, straight-faced. Stuart stares at you - or at least you think he does, you can’t really tell with those eyes - in shock.

 

You snicker. “I was just kiddin’, faceache, it’s been six months.”

 

“S-six months?” His lower lip trembles and he looks about ready to cry. You really hope he doesn’t start crying. You hate it when people cry. “But how did I end up here?”

 

This kid sure does ask a lot of annoying questions. “One of my punishments for runnin’ you over was havin’ to drag you around with me for 10 or more hours a day.” You grimace, and he glances down at his feet. “Anyways, I was havin’ a little fun with an acquaintance of mine and I may have gotten into another accident which happened to wake you up.”

 

“Oh,” he responds, his voice shrinking to a whisper. He rubs his bloody eyes, sniffling a bit.

 

“Look, kid, it’s gonna be alright. You’re awake now. Isn’t that a good thing?” You attempt to calm down the kid but he just bursts into tears. _Good grief. What an idiot._

 

Comforting people is not your strong suit. “There’s no need for you to start sobbin’ like a little baby. You’re alive. You’re fine. Your eyes look a little weird, but at least you can see.”

 

“B-but I’ve been unconscious for six months!” he blubbers.

 

“Your powers of observation are exemplary,” you say, rolling your eyes. He looks a bit confused by the long words you’ve used, and you sigh. _This kid is really fuckin’ stupid_.

 

You then place your hand on his shoulder a bit awkwardly. “Look at me,” you say. He turns his head towards you, sniffling. “You’re gonna be just fine. I promise.”

 

He wipes away some of the tears and blood from his face with the sleeve of his shirt. “R-really?”

 

“Yeah, sure,” you respond, acting like your usual self again. “Anyways, we should get going before the cops come. I really don’t wanna get thrown in jail.”

 

You begin walking off when he tugs at your sleeve. “Yes?” you ask.

 

He then says , “Since you said you knew me when I was unconscious, you probably know my name. But I don’t know yours. What is it?”

 

You offer him one of your rare smiles. “My name,” you say, “is Murdoc Niccals.”


	5. The Start Of Your New Band

 

Your name is Murdoc Niccals, and although you have only known him for a day, you have discovered that you loathe Stuart Pot with a passion.

 

The kid has not stopped talking since he first awoke. He talked all the way to the hospital, he talked while his parents screamed obscenities in your face some more, he talked throughout all the legal discussions taking place about clearing your charges, and now he sits in your car talking your ear off about something stupid. You believe the current topic he’s chattering about is his pet hamster he had when he was ten and how the poor hamster fell out a window. You kind of wish he had fallen out a window too. Maybe then he’d finally shut up.

 

“Hey, uh, kid?” you ask.

 

He finally ceases talking. _Thank Satan_. “Yeah?”

 

“I have a pretty weird question to ask you,” you say tentatively.

 

He tilts his head like a confused puppy. “Is it about my sex life?”

 

You press your face into the steering wheel of the car in exasperation.“No, denthead! Why would it be about your sex life? I don’t give a flyin’ fuck about what ya do with random birds. I really don’t.”

 

“Oh,” he says, biting one of his nails. “Then what is it?”

 

“Well,” you begin. “One of my goals in life is to be part of a world-famous band. I’ve been in quite a number of bands but they never have gotten anywhere. I was thinkin’ of startin’ up another one now that I don’t have to take care of ya…”

 

“And?” Stuart asks.

 

You exhale loudly. “And I was wonderin’ if ya had any useful musical talents or anythin’.”

 

“I can play the keyboard,” he says eagerly. “I can also sing but I’ve never really done it in front of people before.”

 

“Alright,” you reply. “How ‘bout we drive to my apartment and I’ll see if you got what it takes.”

 

He smiles a happy, partially-toothless smile and nods.

 

You grumble to yourself and start up the extraordinarily wrecked car. You really need to purchase (or steal) a new one. Hopefully you don’t crash your new car into metal poles or people’s faces.

 

You continue driving towards your apartment while Stuart keeps rambling on and on. You grip the steering wheel tightly and take a few deep breaths to calm yourself down, because you are seconds away from throttling the life out of the kid. Of all the people you had to run over, it had to be this dweeby idiot. It couldn’t have been some pretty bird or some guy with a little bit of brainpower. But with your luck, what were you expecting? No matter how many times you drill into your head that you’re God and that you’re perfect, you still seem to have bad luck when it comes to getting into unrealistic and strange situations like that.

 

You turn on the radio, hoping to drown out Stuart’s mindless talking, but then he perks up at a song that comes on and he fucking starts _whistling_ along to the song. Wow. Just wow. The whistling is really getting on your nerves and you try to not let it show, but of course Stuart notices anyways.

 

“You look a little bothered,” he states. “Are you okay?”

 

You turn to face him, a terrifyingly fake grin that would drive away most human beings plastered across your face. “I’m just peachy,” you say through gritted teeth. “Absolutely fuckin’ peachy.”

 

“Great!” he chirps brightly, smiling. You sigh and smush your face into the steering wheel in frustration. You’re really surprised how he can manage to function with the incredible lack of intellect he possesses.

 

You try to keep yourself calm enough to drive all the way to your apartment, seeing that you really don’t want to scare off your possible keyboardist/singer. Hopefully his musical talents aren’t reflective of his unfortunate intellectual capacity. But with the luck you’ve been having lately, it’s most likely that the only song that Denthead can play is “Three Blind Mice” or “Twinkle Twinkle Little Star” or something like that.

 

You’re snapped out of your thoughts by some loud whistling. You look over and see that Stuart had changed the radio station, found _another_ song he liked, and began whistling _again._ You tightly clutch the steering wheel until your fingers turn white. Is the kid _purposefully_ trying to be annoying? Or is he just one of those people who just have annoying personalities and there’s nothing you can do about it? Whichever one it is, you certainly are annoyed. So annoyed, in fact, that you decide to say something about it.

 

“Can you shut your bloody mouth for once?” you snarl. “It’s so fuckin’ annoyin’.”

 

He visibly winces at your words. “Sorry,” he squeaks, and quits whistling. You don’t bother saying thank you. Like you mentioned previously, manners ain’t your thing. You only save manners for dire and desperate situations.

 

You finally arrive at your apartment, and park the car on the side of the road. You and Stuart exit the car after a few minutes (because the dullard was having trouble unbuckling himself, what a fucking idiot) and shamble up the building steps to your apartment on the sixth floor. You find that trekking up these particular stairs with Stu to be a bit uncomfortable, seeing that you’d pushed a vegetablized Stu down these stairs multiple times. Hopefully he doesn’t remember your and the Backseat Twits’ fun rounds of the wonderful game all three of you invented known as Let’s-See-How-Long-It-Takes-Before-Stuart-Falls-Out-Of-His-Wheelchair. You look over at him and he seems completely unaware of what had happened on these stairs during the past six months. You let out a small sigh of relief, and finish the walk up the stairs. “Come along, dullard,” you say, beckoning to the kid a few steps behind you. He follows you down the hall and to your apartment, which happens to be number 666. How funny. The number really suits you.

 

You unlock the door and step inside, kicking some dirty laundry and a dead roach out of the way. “Home sweet home,” you announce, holding up a random bra belonging to some bird you shagged and throwing it across the room.

 

Stuart looks around, wrinkling his nose with disgust. “It’s so messy! Don’t you ever clean in here?”

 

“No,” you respond, shrugging. “There’s not much use for cleanin’. The place is gonna be a dump either way.”

 

“Well, it’s gross,” he says. “There’s probably mice in here.”

 

“Nah,” you reply. “The mice are all afraid a me. Nobody messes with Murdoc.” You sit down on your broken bed and light a cigarette. You lay back onto the pillows and sigh, breathing a cloud of smoke into the air.

 

The kid perches on the broken end of your bed, squished against the bed frame. “Why are you sittin’ so far away?” you ask, chuckling a bit. “You don’t have to sit on the broken part. You can move closer. I don’t bite, I promise.” He edges closer, pressing his fingertips together nervously. “Do ya smoke?” you inquire. He nods, and you pass him a cigarette and your lighter. He lights up and seems to relax a bit more.

 

“So,” he says, staring at his feet. “Do you have a keyboard? I’ll show you what I can do.”

 

You gesture lazily to the keyboard in the corner of the room. You used to play when you were a young boy, but the only thing you can remember how to play now is “Chopsticks”. So the keyboard just sits there in the corner, buried under a mound of t-shirts used for questionable purposes.

 

He walks over to the keyboard and grimaces, clearing the disgusting pile off of it. He ponders for a second. “Do you want me to sing something too?” he asks.

 

You nod. “Do your best,” you say.

 

He begins playing a tune you’re not familiar with and sings along to it. You freeze, awestruck, the cigarette dropping from your hand and onto the bed.

 

His keyboard skills are good. Like, really good. But what you’re astonished by is his _voice._ His voice is perfect. He’s perfect. The perfect frontman for your band.

 

He finishes his song, and turns back to you for validation. “Wow,” you breathe. “You’re amazin’, Stu.”

 

“Does this mean that I’m in your band?” he asks.

 

“Yeah,” you say, walking over to where he stands at the keyboard. “Now let’s see if you’re any good at playin’ original material.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry about the wait, i’m super busy at the moment with work. i’m estimating a new chapter per week but i don’t know if that will work out.


	6. The Kidnapping Of Russel Hobbs

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sooooo i kinda underestimated how much free time i had. i will be updating still, just very slowly.

Your name is Murdoc Niccals, and you really need to stop getting yourself into illegal situations.

 

First it was petty thievery, then possible murder, and now actual kidnapping. It’s more like adultnapping, really. The person currently being stolen isn’t a child. But that doesn’t matter. You’ve still stolen somebody.

 

You had found out about the person currently residing in a bag in your trunk from multiple sources. For the past few weeks, you (with a bit of assistance from your dentheaded acquaintance) had been desperately searching for a drummer for your newly formed band.

 

You remember the night you found out about him. You were in dire need of alcohol and birds to shag, so you shambled down to the bar near your apartment. You had ordered some aggressively strong alcohol and ended up striking up a conversation with this young hipster-looking man sitting next to you. Somehow the topic drifted to music, and you remember mentioning how you were in a band and needed a drummer.

 

The man had perked up and said, “Have you ever heard of Russel Hobbs?”

 

You said no. You hadn’t.

 

“He’s amazing,” the man had gushed. “He’s a rhythm god who was possessed by the ghosts of his dead friends.”

 

You didn’t reply to the man, instead you just sat there grinning a grin that would haunt the nightmares of most people.

 

Having Russel Hobbs as a drummer would be perfect. It would get you so much press. He had everything the people would love: hip hop, rapping ghosts, a tragic backstory, and drum expertise. You knew at that moment that you had to have him in your band, whether he wanted to or not.

 

You had told Faceache the next day about him and exactly what you planned on doing.

 

He had stared at you in shock. “M-murdoc! Y-y-you can’t steal a _real human person_! That’s illegal!”

 

Your fist had connected with his cheek quite hard. “Does it look like I care about what’s illegal and what’s not?”

 

“N-no,” he had whimpered in response, pressing a hand to his cheek.

 

“Exactly,” you had replied gruffly. “I’m Murdoc fuckin’ Niccals, and I can do whatever the bloody hell I want. Even if it means kidnapping some fucker.”

 

And that’s what lead to you tracking down Russel Hobbs and finding out the record shop in Soho where he worked, and showing up one morning. You had asked for him to find you some obscure 50s record. He turned around to look for it and that’s when you slipped the sack over his head and bundled him out of the shop. More like dragged him, really. He was a very large person and your upper body strength was practically nonexistent.

 

After quite a struggle, you loaded Russel into the trunk of your car, which was still totaled. You really need to buy a new car. Two-Dents (that was a new nickname for Stu you had come up with based on the two dents in his head that you had made with your car) sat in the passenger seat biting his nails aggressively out of nervousness.

 

“Quit bitin’ your nails,” you say, entering the car and slapping his hand away from his mouth.

 

“It...it calms me down when I’m n-nervous,” he responds.

 

“Well, it’s an unattractive habit and you should stop. It makes your fingers look disgusting,” you reply, buckling up and starting the car.

 

You look back over at Stuart, who’s just staring at his feet. “Put on your bloody seatbelt, faceache,” you snap. “Your head’s already fucked up enough. We don’t need you going through more head trauma.” He listens to your words, buckling his seatbelt and sitting quietly as you start the drive back towards your apartment.

 

You turn on the radio to some station which happens to be blasting some weird alternative tune. Two-Dents perks up immediately and begins singing along to the song eagerly.

 

You can’t help it when the corners of your mouth turn up in a barely-visible amused grin. He’s so fucking enthusiastic and you can’t stop yourself from secretly enjoying his endless energy. But you would never admit that to anyone. Not ever.

 

 _That’s right, keep singing,_ the voice in your head says to him. _That voice of yours is so uniquely perfect._ But your mouth stays firmly shut because you’re Murdoc Niccals, and you don’t say nice things to people, especially to annoying blue-haired pricks.

 

The drive back to your apartment is a long one, and the skies have grown pink and orange with the setting sun by the time you arrive. Denthead is fast asleep in the seat next to you, his head leaning against the window. You poke him roughly. “Wake the fuck up, Sleeping Beauty. We’re here.”

 

He squeaks, rolling over in his sleep, and his face happens to press into the crook of your arm. You immediately tense up and yank your arm away roughly, trembling just the slightest bit.

 

You haven’t always had an aversion to being touched. It just developed over time due to your unfortunate living situation as a child. Affection and trust weren’t common in your childhood. Your father was not an affectionate person and you had come to learn that quite quickly when you were small after a few incidents that you’ve buried deeply in the darkest corners of the hellhole of your mind.

 

Two-Dents whines in his sleep after his headrest (aka your motherfucking arm) is pulled away and he slumps back over onto the window. Frustrated, you reach over and slap him across the face, hard. He wakes up with a start. “What’d you do that for?”

 

“Because,” you snarl. “You were cuddlin’ with my arm like a fuckin’ puff.”

 

“M’sorry,” he whimpers, staring at his feet embarrassedly.

 

“You should be,” you grumble, parking the car on the side of the road and stepping out. He follows behind you like a obedient little puppy. Honestly, you think that most puppies have more brain capacity than him. His lack of intelligence is quite extraordinary indeed.

 

You pop open the trunk and heave the sack full of Russel out and onto the walkway outside your apartment building. You and Two-Dents (you should really just shorten the nickname to 2D) stare down at the unmoving sack.

 

“Is he dead?” 2D asks, sounding quite alarmed.

 

“Nah,” you reply. “He’s just unconscious.”

 

“I still can’t believe you stole a _real human person_ ,” he says.

 

“Believe it, faceache,” you respond. “I’m Murdoc fuckin’ Niccals.”

 

“What does that have to do with anything?” he inquires, but by then you’re lugging the sack containing the unconscious (or possibly sleeping) Russel towards the main apartment doors.

 

You finally manage to drag the Russel sack up the stairs until you reach your floor. 2D bounds ahead of you, not bothering to help you with your lifting. You snarl obscenities and insults under your breath, your lungs heaving and your arms aching due to having to lift a huge-ass person up six flights of stairs.

 

“Um, Murdoc?” you hear 2D yell.

 

“What, dentface? Can’t you see I’m busy?” you snap.

 

“This is important though,” he responds.

 

You drop Russel and march over to where 2D stands outside your apartment door. “What do you fuckin’ want?”

 

He says nothing, just taps the note on your door saying you’ve been evicted from your apartment.

 

You look at 2D. 2D looks back at you.

 

“Well, shit.”


	7. The Issues With Finding Decent Real Estate

Your name is Murdoc Niccals, and you have a very strange taste in real estate.

 

After collecting some of your possessions, you left your apartment and moved right into your destroyed Vauxhall Astra. It was quite a cramped place to live in, with clothes strewn everywhere and boxes of random shit shoved under seats. And the most annoying part was that Russel would wake up sometimes and you’d have to go to the trunk to knock him out again.

 

“Why don’t you buy a new apartment?” 2D had asked you one day after bringing you some much-needed dinner.

 

“I’m fuckin’ broke, faceache,” you had snarled in response. You had been in one of your blackest moods that day and 2D’s constant need to visit you wasn’t helping one bit.

 

“I have money,” he replied, unfazed by your anger.

 

“I don’t need your fuckin’ money,” you snapped. “It’s my living situation, therefore I should be the one paying. Do you even know how much an apartment costs?”

 

“Of course,” he said. “Temporarily paying rent for an apartment for you isn’t going to be that expensive.”

 

It was at that moment where you had been truly struck by how different you and he lived. How he lived in a world where money came easy through inheritances and buying apartments for others was but a simple task. And how you lived in a world where you had to steal things to sell just to be able to buy yourself food and pay the rent. And that realization just furthered your anger.

 

Your fist had connected with his face, and he whimpers in pain. “What did yew do that for?” he had asked. You said nothing in response, just sat there numbly.

 

“Murdoc?” he said.

 

“What do you want, denthead?” you responded, your voice a low mumble, barely audible.

 

“Are you alright?” he inquired.

 

You wanted to reply with typical Murdoc-esque rudeness. You wanted to tell him that _yes, I’m fine_ and _go fuck off_. But instead you just sat there staring at the steering wheel of your wrecked car.

 

If you were alone, you would have allowed yourself to cry. But you weren’t alone, and you certainly weren’t going to cry in front of 2D. So you just sighed and said, “I’m fine.”

 

“So you aren’t going to use my money?” he had asked.

 

“No, faceache,” you replied, aggravated.

 

He looked upset for a second, then brightened up again. “I have an idea!” he had chirped.

 

“Yes?” you responded.

 

He grinned and said, “We should all live together as a band. Me, you, and Russel once you stop knocking him out.”

 

“Y’know,” you had replied slowly. “That ain’t a bad idea.”

 

So you began driving around Britain trying to find something cheap enough yet could house three people.

 

2D sits next to you in his familiar spot in the passenger seat, all stretched out with his arms folded behind his head and his feet propped up on the dashboard.

 

“What kinda place are you lookin’ for?” he asks.

 

“I dunno,” you respond. “Somethin’ bigger than my last apartment.”

 

“Like what?” he inquires.

 

“Maybe, like, an old disused warehouse. Somethin’ _different_.”

 

“That sounds kinda spooky,” he replies. “What if we find a place and it’s haunted?”

 

You shrug. “That would be good. You know what I always say. ‘The more haunted a house is, the more publicity it gets.’”

 

“When have you ever said that?” he asks, but by then your mind has drifted elsewhere and you don’t hear him.

 

You stop for dinner at some tiny Internet cafe. Before entering the place you make sure to keep Russel unconscious as to not draw any attention to you. You really don’t need anymore cops on your back.

 

2D orders some sandwich thing and while he eats, you decide to use the computers to search for a new place to live.

 

What exactly is it you’re looking for? You need a large place, big enough to store all your and 2D’s and Russel’s and whoever else joins your band’s shit. You also need a place far away from everybody so you can make music in peace without having children knocking at your door asking you to buy cookies or having salesmen hand you pamphlets for new vacuum cleaners.

Also, you’d like a haunted house. That would be fucking awesome.

 

You decide to write all of your needs together into the search bar, and that’s when you come across the site where you find your new home, giganticdisusedhauntedstudiosinthemiddleofnowhere.com.

 

You seem to have hit the jackpot. Your eyes light up as you scroll through pages and pages of, well, gigantic disused haunted studios in the middle of nowhere.

 

You don’t notice 2D plop down next to you until he peeks over your shoulder at what you’re doing. “Shove off, faceache,” you snarl.

 

“Why can’t we just get a _normal_ house?” he asks. “Why do you want us to live in some spooky house?”

 

“Publicity,” you reply. “The people will love us more if we live in a haunted warehouse.”

 

He stares at you, quietly scrutinizing you. “Don’t yew just wanna make music and enjoy everyfink? Why are you so concerned about bein’ adored by everyone?”

 

You freeze, your mind spiraling into thought. _Why do I want people to love us? Why do I want to make it big?_ A few memories from your childhood flash before your eyes. You shudder. _Because, 2D. Because I’ve never been loved. Because I’ve never been wanted. And I want that so much, so fuckin’ desperately._

 

But you don’t say that out loud, no. You’re Murdoc Niccals, and you don’t talk about how you really feel.

 

You snap back to reality, anger beginning to boil inside of you at the fact that 2D brought up something that got to you in ways you didn’t like.

 

Your fist meets 2D’s cheek hard, and he squeaks in surprise and pain. Usually you only hit him once out of annoyance, but not this time. This time you’re not annoyed, you’re _enraged._ A red haze fills your vision, and you blink it away. You look over at 2D to see him lying on the floor trembling, blood dripping from his nose, his right eye swollen. _Did I do that?_ you think to yourself. _Impressive._

 

Seeing the damage you’ve done to 2D and the noises the two of you have probably made, you’re honestly surprised at how nobody’s noticed what just happened. People sure are ignorant.

 

You reach down to pull him up off the floor. “C’mon, faceache,” you say gruffly. “Up you get.” He whimpers in pain, but he clings onto your arm as you yank him to his feet. “Now take a seat and don’t ask any more questions. It’s annoyin’ as fuck.” He nods, wiping blood from his nose. He lets go of your arm and sits down quietly next to you.

 

You scroll through more gigantic disused haunted studios, until you finally decide on the perfect one. The place is called Kong Studios, and it’s  perched on a hilltop in Essex. The website claims that the current owners were looking for an off season caretaker to look after the building during the winter. It also said that the owners would return to the building in 6 months.

 

The place is perfect. As for the 6 month thing, you’re pretty sure the owners wouldn’t mind giving it to you. Nobody, well, at least nobody _normal_ wants a gigantic disused haunted studio in their possession.

 

You tap 2D’s shoulder and show him the studio, the place that you hope will become your forever home. “It looks creepy,” 2D says timidly.

 

“Of course it does, dullard. It’s a gigantic disused haunted studio,” you reply.

 

“What exactly do you mean by ‘haunted’?” he asks.

 

“Haunted as in the building was built on top of a cemetery. Haunted as in ghosts and shit.” Your response is casual and curt, and you hope that it’s direct enough to get 2D to stop asking questions.

 

However, your answer creates even more questions. “How’m I supposed to sleep if there’s ghosts everywhere?” he asks.

 

“You’re a fuckin’ adult,” you snap. “Not a little kid.”

 

“And?” he retorts. “Does that mean I’m not allowed to be scared? No, it doesn’t.”

 

You hate to admit it, but you’re a little impressed by 2D’s nerve to talk back to you so soon after what you’ve done to his face with your fists. “Well, y’could just sleep in someone’s room on the floor. Couldn’t you have thought of that yourself? Y’really don’t need to voice every one of your questions. It’s really fuckin’ annoyin’.”

 

“M’sorry,” he squeaks dejectedly, staring at his feet.

 

You type out a quick email to the current owners of Kong Studios about your interest in the building. Then you sit, staring at the screen, waiting for a reply. Waiting, waiting, waiting.

 

You sigh, bored out of your mind. You prop your face against your hand, holding yourself up so you don’t fall asleep. 2D begins tapping his fingers against the wooden desk, and you try to ignore it. You really need to stop letting his little obnoxious quirks get to your head.

 

You seem to have drifted off for a bit, because you’re extraordinarily startled when the computer beeps, saying that you’ve received a new email.

 

2D looks at you eagerly. “What does it say?” he asks.

 

“I haven’t opened it yet, faceache,” you scoff, opening the email. The email claims that the owners will be willing to see you for an interview tomorrow morning to make sure you’re suitable for taking care of a gigantic disused haunted studio.

 

“They want to...interview you? Why?” 2D inquires.

 

“Because,” you respond. “They want to make sure they’re not givin’ away a gigantic disused haunted studio to someone irresponsible.”

 

“You really aren’t that responsible though,” he says slowly, as if he was nervous to speak to you.

 

“What exactly do you mean by that, dullard?” you reply, your voice low and threatening, representative of dark clouds before a thunderstorm.

 

“I mean,” he says, his voice stuttering a bit, “that you d-don’t really make the b-best decisions.”

 

You raise an eyebrow. “Oh really? And why, may I ask, does that make me irresponsible to maintain a gigantic disused haunted studio?”

 

“B-b-because,” he squeaks nervously. “Because you’re Murdoc, that’s why.”

 

“What kind of a reason is that?” you growl.

 

“It just is!” he yelps, trying desperately to defend his opinion. “It just bloody is.”

 

“It’s a fuckin’ retarded reason, that’s what it is,” you snap, your anger beginning to get the best of you yet again.

 

“M’sorry,” he whimpers pathetically.

 

“I’ll let it slide this time,” you respond gruffly. “Anyways, let’s get the fuck outta this place. We have an interview to attend.”

 

You pull 2D out the door and back to your destroyed Vauxhall Astra. You look around at the familiar worn seats and the bags shoved everywhere, the place you’ve called home for the past week and a half.

 

The place you hope, after tomorrow, won’t need to be your home any longer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> trying to update as much as possible. 
> 
> also, thanks to everyone for leaving kudos and bookmarking and especially for your sweet comments! love you guys <3


	8. The Interview That Went Surprisingly Well

Your name is Murdoc Niccals, and you are now in possession of a gigantic disused haunted studio.

 

You had woken up early the morning of your interview and dressed a little bit nicer than usual, attempting to show a bit of cleanliness and orderliness for your interview. You really really _really_ wanted that studio.

 

“You don’t look any fancier than usual,” 2D had said.

 

“I brushed my teeth,” you replied. “I usually don’t do that.”

 

2D had wrinkled his nose in disgust. “That’s gross,” he said. “You have to start doin’ that daily. You’re gonna get cavities.”

 

“Fuck cavities,” you responded. “I don’t give a flyin’ fuck about dental hygiene, Dents. I really don’t.”

 

“Whatever,” he retorted, attempting to make his seat recline and failing miserably. “Don’t you have anyfink nicer to wear?”

 

“No,” you said. “I’m fuckin’ broke, faceache, and you know it.”

 

“Well, don’t you have any _older_ nice clothes?” 2D inquired.

 

You had tried not to let your anger get the best of you. Today was not the day for rage. “No, denthead! Don’t you fuckin’ understand? I have absolutely _nothin’._ ”

 

He looked a bit confused and dejected. “Murdoc?”

 

“Yes?”

 

“That’s very sad, y’know. You not havin’ anyfink nice to wear.”

 

You shrugged. “It’s not sad at all, dullard. It’s life.”

 

“What do you mean by that?” 2D pushed a stray lock of azure hair out of his face.

 

“Well,” you said. “Some people have a great life, with lots a money and surrounded by lovin’ people. Like you.”

 

2D turned to look right at you. “What about you?”

 

“What about me?” you said.

 

His dark eyes seemed to be reading your thoughts and psychoanalyzing you and it made you feel on edge. “I know you probably didn’t live like me,” he replied.

 

“Well, yes, dullard,” you replied. “I lived...a lot differently.”

 

“Is that why…?” He doesn’t need to finish his sentence for you to understand what he’s trying to tell you. _Is that why you care so much about being loved by everyone? Is that why you need so desperately to be famous?_

 

“Y’know,” you had gruffly said, starting up the car and setting off towards your interview. “You’re not as stupid as I thought.”

 

“Really?” he responded excitedly.

 

“No, not really. You’re still extraordinarily stupid,” you had snapped, trying to cover up the niceties you accidentally showed.

 

“Oh,” he said dejectedly. “I can’t help it.”

 

“I know y’can’t help it, but it’s a fact. You’re a  bloody idiot,” you replied.

 

He had stared at his feet and you saw him trying to blink back tears.

 

“Don’t you dare start cryin’,” you snarled. “It’s annoyin’ as fuck.”

 

But he didn’t listen to you, and that’s how you ended up in this quite bothersome situation.

 

Crying extremely gets on your nerves and often sparks your rage which leads to physical violence. But today you have an interview and you really don’t want to show up to your interview with your clothes wrinkled and 2D injured and anger showing on your already bitter-looking face and drops of blood staining your sleeves.

 

You decide to pretend he isn’t there and keep driving, attempting to pay attention to the road and block out his pathetic little sniffs. But something inside of you keeps pulling your focus back to the tears rolling down 2D’s cheeks and dripping onto his neck and the collar of his shirt.

 

“Dullard,” you say.

 

“No,” he replies, hiding his face in his arms.

 

You groan, annoyed. “Dullard, stop sobbin’. We’re nearly there and I don’t want you lookin’ like a wreck for this interview thing.”

 

“I’m just gonna stay in the car,” he sniffs. “I’ll make sure Russel stays sleepin’ or summfink.”

 

You laugh, harsh and scornful. “Like I trust _you_ to stay and watch over _my_ drummer. If you stayed in here with Russel, I guarantee that you’d fuck up somehow.”

 

He doesn’t respond, just sniffles and buries his face in his arms deeper.

 

You sigh. “Why are y’even cryin’ anyways?”

 

He lifts his head. “You. That’s why I’m cryin’. Because of you.”

 

“What’d I do?” you ask. “I’m just bein’ honest with ya.”

 

“No,” he says. “You might be bein’ honest but you’re also bein’ real mean. I could always quit your bloody band and go back to livin’ my life the way it was before you _ran over my face._ ”

 

You freeze, and the world around you seems to slow to a stop. “You can’t leave,” you say, your voice sounding unfamiliar. “I won’t let you.”

 

“You can’t stop me,” he responds. “Can’t you?”

 

In your strange state of illogical thinking, you reach out and place your hand on top of his. You look at him, and you hope this gesture gets the point across. _Please don’t leave me. Not now. It’s too early._

He looks over at you, confused. And you know he has every right to be confused because what you’re doing isn’t _you._ It isn’t a very Murdoc Niccals thing to do. But you’re terrified and desperate. Terrified he’ll leave and you’ll be nothing again. Desperate for fame and money.

 

He sniffs once more, and wipes his eyes on the sleeve of his shirt, not moving his hand from underneath yours.

 

You’re snapped out of your unfamiliar state by the jarring honking of cars behind you and the shouts of annoyed drivers. Quick as lightning, you yank your hand out from underneath 2D’s and step on the gas pedal, sparking the car into motion again.

 

The two of you sit in silence for the rest of the trip, not daring enough to mention what had just happened. Finally, as the sun begins to slope downwards in the sky, you arrive at your (hopefully) future home.

 

“It’s rainin’,” 2D announces.

 

“Your powers of observation are impeccable as always,” you say, rolling your eyes. You open the trunk of the car to check on Russel. He stirs at the sound of the trunk opening, so you pop a sleeping pill into his mouth and make sure he swallows it. He settles back down again into a heavy slumber, and you close the trunk quietly.

 

2D comes up behind you. “Ain’t those sleepin’ pills gonna fuck with his brain? You’ve been givin’ him so many.”

 

“They’re the same pills y’take for your insomnia,” you respond. “And your mental state hasn’t been deterioratin’. You’ve always been stupid. Pills ain’t gonna change that.”

 

You see him smile, just a little bit. Laughing at his own expense. Good. When he’s in a happy mood, it may be annoying, but not as annoying as when he cries.

 

With 2D following close behind, you walk up the large hill to where the studio is perched on top. You knock on the door, three quick raps, to notify the owners of your presence.

 

“It’s spooky here,” 2D says, shivering. “Can’t we live somewhere that ain’t so creepy?”

 

“No, faceache,” you answer. “We’ve already had this conversation. We’re livin’ in a gigantic disused haunted studio, and that’s final.”

 

The door creaks open, and a nervous-looking man and woman peek their heads out. The second they see you, they fling the keys at you. “Keep it,” the man says, his wife running down the hill screaming. He soon joins her in her frantic state, and you and 2D watch as they clamber into their car and go speeding off.

 

“That was...not as difficult as I thought,” you state.

 

“So this is home now?” 2D asks, pushing the door open and beginning to look around. “It’s huge!”

 

“Of course it is, dullard. It’s called a _gigantic_ disused haunted studio for a reason,” you say, rolling your eyes.

 

You can’t help but crack a tiny smile, and 2D notices. “What are you smilin’ about?”

 

“Dunno,” you say, shrugging. “Just happy, I suppose.”

 

He grins one of his contagious grins. “Yay!” he chirps, hugging you. “It’s good that you’re finally in a good mood.”

 

You sigh. “I guess so,” you respond. “Now, faceache, you can get the fuck off of me and go get all your shit outta the car. Don’t break anything, don’t touch my shit, and don’t wake Russel.”

 

He nods, and walks briskly down the hill, ignoring the rain, to empty your car of all of his possessions.

 

Your gaze travels around the gigantic disused haunted studio, no, Kong Studios, _your_ studio. You chuckle to yourself, a content sort of chuckle. It seems like things may be looking up for you. Maybe your bad luck streak has ended. Maybe this band might be successful. And maybe, just maybe, you can finally be satisfied with your life.

 

“Murdoc!” you hear 2D shriek.

 

“What now, denthead?” you call back.

 

“Y’know how you said three things I shouldn’t do?” he says.

 

You groan in annoyance. “What did you break, Dents?”

 

“I didn’t break anyfink!” he shouts.

 

“What did you touch that you shouldn’t have?” you yell.

 

“I didn’t touch anyfink!” he replies.

 

You freeze. “Dullard, you didn’t.”

 

“M’sorry,” he says.

 

A new, unfamiliar voice cuts through the argument, but you and 2D both know who the voice belongs to.

 

Russel Hobbs climbs out of the trunk and says, “What the fuck is going on?”

 

Shit.


	9. The Unfortunate Events Involving Paula Cracker

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is it, lads! this is, as you can tell by the chapter name, the paula incident. for those of you who know what the paula incident is, you’ll know what this chapter entails. however, for those who don’t, this chapter includes some male-female sex. it’s not super descriptive, but if stuff like that makes you uncomfortable, you can skip this chapter or pm me on tumblr for a clean version.

Your name is Murdoc Niccals, and you really need to stop getting yourself into these unfortunate situations.

 

It had been almost a month since you, 2D, and Russel had moved into Kong Studios. After you had explained the kidnapping situation to Russel (and sat through lots of angry yelling and the silent treatment) and he finally began cooperating with you, you had his belongings shipped in from his past place of residence to join yours and 2D’s in attempt to make the studio feel less abandoned and more like home for everyone living there.

 

You learned a lot of things from Russel Hobbs. For example, you learned how to deal with pesky zombies that would often roam about in the cemetery near the studio and wander into the house. “A shovel to the head,” he would say, “is the best way to get rid of them. Knocks ‘em right out.” You also learned that the things you heard about him were true, that he indeed was possessed by the ghosts of his dead friends. It was a frequent sight to witness Russel sitting there blankly while a random ghost was eating a sandwich at the kitchen table.

 

You mostly ignored the ghosts, but 2D of course tried to befriend every single one of them. However, there was one ghost you did like, and that was Del. Del was Russel’s best mate in life and death, and he had quite amazing rapping skills that you wanted to feature in upcoming songs. This shared appreciation for Del and his talent brought began to bring you and Russel closer.

 

It was around the time that Russel and you began cooperating with one another that you noticed that 2D had been taking your car and leaving the house at night. You brought this strange fact up to Russel one night after 2D had left for the fifteenth night in a row.

 

“Ain’t it obvious, Muds?” he had said, offering you a slice of cake he had gotten from the fridge. “Looks like 2D’s got himself a girl.”

 

You had thrown the piece of cake across the room, where it hit the wall with a splat. “What?” you had snarled. “How? Why?”

 

Russel had chuckled. “He got a girl cuz he’s good-looking and nice. That’s why.”

 

“But...but...but…” you sputtered, feeling jealously boil up inside you. “He’s fuckin’ 2D! How the bloody hell can he get a girl before I can?”

 

Cutting another piece of cake, Russel grinned. “You ain’t good-looking or nice, Muds.”

 

“I can be nice!” you snapped, sounding like a bratty toddler throwing a temper tantrum. “And I’m a bloody _god_. I’m fuckin’ gorgeous.”

 

“You can keep telling yo’self that,” Russel said around a mouthful of cake. He then pointed to the squished cake on the wall. “You gotta clean that up.”

 

You had angrily stormed over and scraped the cake off the wall and onto your plate. You took a bite aggressively, glaring at Russel. He said nothing, just smiled contently at you. You finished eating your cake and stomped up the winding stairs to your room, where you sat on your bed and sulked.

 

The next morning, you had gone downstairs to see 2D already eating breakfast, a dopey grin on his face. You noticed how his azure hair was rumpled and messy and how there were two love bites on his neck, and only then did it truly hit you that he had been spending the past fifteen nights shagging some bird.

 

“Mornin’ faceache,” you grunted.

 

“Hi Murdoc!” he chirped, even more sunshiny than usual.

 

“So,” you had said, your voice dropping low and your fingers tracing one of the love bites on his neck. “Who’s the unlucky lady?”

 

He pulled away from you, feeling uncomfortable from your touches. Not seeming to notice the insult in your words, he sighed one of those head-over-heels in love sighs. “Her name’s Paula. Paula Cracker.”

 

“When’d ya meet her?” you asked, helping yourself to some of 2D’s cereal.

 

He smiled. “I met her on the second night we were here when we went out to that local bar. Then we began meetin’ up and talkin’, and then we started doin’ more than just talk.”

 

You stole the rest of 2D’s cereal before he could protest. “Is she a good shag?”

 

He blushed profusely and stared at the table. “Y-yeah,” he said. “If y’didn’t notice, I’ve been goin’ out t’her place at night…”

 

“Of course I noticed, dullard,” you said through a mouthful of cereal. “Anyone with half a brain can tell that you’ve been out shaggin’ her.”

 

“Y’know,” 2D responded. “She can play guitar pretty well. Maybe she can join our band!”

 

You had raised an eyebrow, interested. “Well, bring her over. I wanna see if she’s got talent.”

 

Later that day, Paula Cracker arrived at Kong Studios, guitar in tow. Her music skills were subpar, but in your opinion, semi-decent abilities were better than none, which was what you currently had. So you let her stay.

 

But having Paula Cracker move in with the band brought up some issues. For example, you and Russel were often kept up at night due to the sounds of Paula and 2D shagging in one of their rooms.

 

“Denthead moans like a fuckin’ girl,” you had complained to Russel one night. “He’s so damn high-pitched and loud. He makes it impossible to get some bloody sleep in this place.”

 

Russel nodded, yawning. “Him and Paula never stop. They’re fucking all the goddamn time.”

 

You poured yourself another glass of vodka. “Don’t they ever get tired? They’re always shaggin’ at night and ain’t gettin’ any sleep.”

 

“No,” Russel sleepily replied, his head pressed against his large arms. “If they tired, they ain’t showing it.”

 

You finished the bottle of vodka and sighed, walking off to your room to attempt to get some sleep. You had been drinking more and more nightly to try to get yourself to pass out so you could get a little bit of rest. Obtaining a few hours of sleep was worth the hangover in the morning.

 

But you couldn’t get any sleep, so you just lied on your bed and stared at the ceiling, annoyed. It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair how someone like 2D could have an actual girlfriend while someone as amazing as you got stuck with the lowlifes that hung out in the backs of clubs. It wasn’t fair, you thought, how you haven’t shagged a bird since 2D woke back up again. And it certainly wasn’t fair how his life improved since the two of you met and your life only seemed to get worse and worse.

 

You angrily flung the empty vodka bottle across the room, where it shattered onto the floor. You didn’t bother to pick up the shards of glass. You just left them on the floor to glint eerily in the corners of your room.

 

There were three more weeks of the same annoying nighttime routine. You and Russel had tried everything to block out the sounds of Paula and 2D partaking in their nearly nightly fucking sessions. First you had purchased earplugs, but they were of poor quality and often ended up being thrown at 2D by you throughout the course of the day. Next you had tried playing music, but it was hard to concentrate on playing your bass while you were hearing sex noises from a few rooms over. Lastly you had tried going to bed earlier, but you still would wake up in the middle of the night to “Ooh yes, _right_ there” or “Yer so fuckin’ tight”. You and Russel both found it quite nauseating.

 

But then came one day where after a long grueling day of attempting to write and play a song and severely failing, 2D and Russel had left to take naps in their rooms, leaving you and Paula behind in the recording room.

 

“So,” you had said awkwardly. “You and Denthead sure are loud at night.”

 

She laughed. “ _He’s_ loud. Not me.”

 

“Well, still,” you replied. “Can’t you two go shag somewhere else? Me and Russ need some fuckin’ sleep.”

 

“So do I,” she said. “But he always wants sex and I feel bad if I just went to sleep. He’d probably start crying or something.”

 

You snickered. “Of course he fuckin’ would. He’s 2D. D’ya really expect anythin’ else from him?”

 

She sighed. “He’s such a good boyfriend. He tries so hard. But I feel like I’ve been so unhappy with him.”

 

You quirked an eyebrow. “But y’shag him nightly,” you said. “How can y’say you’re unhappy?”

 

“I dunno,” she replied. “Maybe my heart’s set on another man.”

 

“And who,” you had asked, “might that be?”

 

And then she had kissed you, rough and harsh and full of want for you that she had suppressed during her times with 2D.

 

It had been months since you’d kissed anyone, and longer since you’d fucked. So when Paula Cracker’s lips met yours, any rationality within you, any guilt you could have felt disappeared and you allowed your inhibition to fade.

 

She moved her head away, breathless, and you pulled her right back into another passionate kiss. Her fingers tangled in your hair - _she didn’t seem to care that you rarely wash it_ \- and her lips traced across your mouth and down your jawline. A low moan caught in the back of your throat and you leaned forward to suck on her neck, marking her as yours. You had always liked leaving your mark on the birds you shagged. It was like a little neon sign saying “Murdoc Niccals was here”, notifying others of your presence in a bird’s bed at night.

 

“Murdoc,” she said. “Can we move this somewhere else?”

 

You had nodded, and the two of you had stumbled towards your bedroom, lustdrunk. So lustdrunk, in fact, that you couldn’t even make it to the bedroom and so you and Paula ended up squeezing into the third stall of the bathroom to continue.

 

Whether it was the alcohol you had previously drank or just your own overwhelming desire that made your head spin and your heart pound, you couldn’t tell. But since you had entered the bathroom, everything seemed to be slow and blurry. Little details were the only things you could really focus on, tiny things like the crisp chill of the air on your bare torso and the feel of Paula’s breasts under your hands.

 

When her hands traveled down your body and began to squeeze and rub at you through your pants, you arched your back, hissing and whining needily. And before you knew it, you found the rest of your and Paula’s clothing joining the pile of clothes on the tiled bathroom floor.

 

“Do you have…?” she asked breathlessly.

 

“Yeah,” you had replied, pulling your pants off the floor and rummaging around in the pockets for a condom. Whenever you shagged birds, you always made sure you did it safe. You certainly didn’t want tiny little child versions of you running around. Just the thought of you fathering children made you sick. Besides, you were Murdoc fucking Niccals. Nobody in their right mind would trust you around children.

 

It had been so long since you last shagged a bird. So when you began to press yourself into her, you exploded with built-up lust you hadn’t been able to evaporate by yourself. You let out a loud pleasured moan, and she had shushed you between ragged breaths. “Careful,” she whispered. “We’ll be heard.”

 

“We’ll be fine, luv,” you replied. “Nobody’s gonna find us here.”

 

You and her were not fine. You had just begun to thrust into her, the two of you both eliciting gasping moans, when the door to the bathroom burst open. And, in your lustdrunk haze, you and Paula didn’t hear. So you thrust into her again, listening to her moan your name to the ceiling tiles, and that’s when Russel Hobbs opened the door to your stall.

 

If the world had been traveling in slow motion during the time that you and Paula were fucking, the world sped up to a blur after Russel opened the door. You were only catching bits and pieces of what he was saying, hearing him order Paula to _get your fuckin clothes on, bitch, and leave this goddamn studio forever._ Then he turned his attention to you, told you he was disappointed in you, that he thought you were better than that. Told you things you hadn’t heard since you were a child. Things that transported you into memories you thought were buried deep in the back of your mind, memories that resurfaced in your nightmares, memories that you could only chase away with pills and alcohol.

 

A searing pain in your nose snapped you out of your terrifying reminiscing. You were not used to being on the receiving side of physical violence recently. You liked to believe that if someone ever hit you then you’d cause much more damage back, but instead you just stood there and let Russel break your nose in five places and did absolutely nothing about it.

 

And of course, the bathroom door opens, and of course 2D shuffles in. “What’s goin’ on?” he inquired, yawning.

 

Russel looked at him. “If the situation here ain’t clear by now, Murdoc fucked your girlfriend.”

 

“W-what?” 2D’s voice rose up into a surprised squeak.

 

“Babe,” Paula had said, attempting to keep 2D calm. “2D. It’s not his fault, it’s mine. I fell out of love with you and into love with him. I should’ve broken up with you a long time ago.”

 

But Paula’s words did nothing to calm him and he broke down crying, sinking onto the bathroom floor. “B-but I thought...I thought…”

 

“I’m sorry,” she repeated. “I really am.” She then turned to you. “And I should apologize for fucking you, which led to your nose injury. So I will. I’m sorry, Murdoc.” And with that, Paula Cracker pulled her clothes on, dusted herself off, and left the room, exiting the lives of you, 2D, and Russel forever.

 

Which led to where you are now, lying on the cold bathroom tiles, blood dripping down your face, naked as a newborn, agonizing pain shooting through your nose.

 

Russel just looks at you and shakes his head. “C’mon, 2D,” he says, offering a meaty hand to 2D. “Let’s get some sleep. Maybe you’ll feel better tomorrow.”

 

“No,” he sniffs. “I’m not gettin’ up.”

 

Russel shrugs. “You do you then. I’m gonna go get some shuteye.” He shuffles out of the room, and you notice that his right hand is smeared with your blood.

 

You reach over to the pile of your abandoned clothing, and pull on your clothes, your head spinning from lack of sleep. A sharp pain in your nose makes you wince, and you quickly lay back down onto the floor.

 

“2D,” you manage to croak. “Can y’help me out here? Or are y’just gonna sit around and cry?”

 

“Why would I help you?” he says. “You shagged Paula, and _you knew._  You knew I loved her.”

 

You wipe blood from your nose. “Y’should consider yourself lucky. She was extraordinarily ugly and quite a twat. Y’should be thankin’ me for gettin’ rid of her for ya.”

 

“But I loved her,” he whispers. “And now she’s gone and I’m sad. Love ain’t supposed to hurt. Why is it hurtin’ so much, Murdoc?”

 

“All love hurts,” you say gruffly. “There’s no such thing as love without pain.”

 

“Yes there is,” he replies, his voice quiet. “If yew think that all love hurts then that’s a really sad thought. Love is supposed to be painless and happy. It’s supposed to be wonderful.” He pauses to take a shaky breath. “I thought that what I had with Paula was wonderful. But...but...it wasn’t wonderful enough for her. She wanted you.”

 

“I didn’t want her back,” you respond. “I only shagged her cos’ I was drunk and cos’ I’ll shag anyone if they want to shag me.”

 

“Still,” he says. “You shagged Paula. _My_ Paula. And I’m never, not ever, gonna forgive you for it.” He crosses his arms like a child and buries his face into them.

 

Frustrated with his childlike behavior, you snap, “Then don’t forgive me. Frankly, faceache, I don’t give a fuck whether you hate me or not. You’re stayin’ here regardless of your feelings towards me.”

 

“What if I tried leavin’?” he asks.

 

“Then I’d hunt you down with my crossbow and make you come back,” you say nonchalantly. You lift your head to watch the fright show in his expression, and you revel in that fright, drinking it in hungrily.

 

He says nothing, just flicks off the bathroom lights so he can sleep. You watch as he slumps in the corner of the room, poorly attempting to hide his fear, his fear of you.

 

After what seems like an eon of silence, you decide to speak again. “Faceache?” you whisper.

 

No response.

 

“Faceache, I’m sorry.”

 

But by the time you finally apologize, he’s asleep and you know it. So you don’t try to wake him up.

 

Because you’re Murdoc Niccals, and you don’t ever apologize for anything, because you regret nothing.

 

Or at least that’s what you tell yourself.


	10. The Surprise Inside The Oversized FedEx Box

Your name is Murdoc Niccals, and your band is complete once more.

 

You had woken up the morning after you shagged Paula still lying on the bathroom floor, your nose still sore, and 2D slumped asleep in the corner.

 

You had taken your shoe and flung it at 2D’s head. He woke up with a start. “Wakey wakey, denthead,” you snapped.

 

He sniffed angrily and crossed his arms, turning his back to you. You rolled your eyes. “Dents, you’re not a bloody child. Stop actin’ like one.”

 

“M’not actin’ like a child,” he mumbled. “M’just mad at you.”

 

You scoffed. “You’re just tryin’ to get attention by overdramatizin’ your anger. If you were really angry then you’d do more than just sit around sulkin’.”

 

“I’m not bein’ overdramatic. I’m just takin’ out my anger in a quiet way.” 2D glared at you. “Unlike you, I don’t hit people when I’m mad.”

 

You just stared at him. Staring, and saying nothing. Staring, and drowning out the tiny voice in your head saying _hitting people when you’re angry? You’re becoming just like your father._

 

And so then you decided to do exactly what 2D just said you always do when you’re angry. You promptly slapped 2D across the face, hard. He winced, tears springing up in the corners of his eyes. “Shut the fuck up, faceache.”

 

He buried his face in his skinny arms and cried. You sighed, shaking your head at him and stormed up to your room, ignoring the tiny pangs of guilt coursing through your heart.

 

You slammed the door to your room, exasperated and tired and still a little hungover from yesterday. Rage began searing through you, and your foot connected with your wall, causing a smudgy dent to form.

 

“The band’s breakin’ again,” you whispered to yourself. “Why can’t I do anythin’ right?”

 

 _Because,_ said the voice in your head, the one that sounded eerily similar to your father’s. _Because you’re Murdoc fucking Niccals and that means you’re destined to be a failure._

 

And you then tried, you tried so damn hard to ignore that voice so you could begin typing up an ad on Russel’s laptop saying that you were looking for a new guitarist. You focused on the screen in front of you, concentrating on the fact that you weren’t upset. Why would you be upset? There is no logical reason why you should be upset. In fact, you should be rather happy. Despite your nose injury, yesterday was a nice day. It was nice because you finally shagged a bird for the first time in quite a while. And she knew what she was doing. You like your birds experienced. It’s not fun for you when you have to take it slow and gentle. You aren’t a gentle person whatsoever.

 

You finished typing up the flyer and submitted it to a local newspaper, hoping you’d find someone in town with guitar skills. You then decided to go downstairs to the kitchen where you had left a pack of your cigarettes. You really needed a good smoke. It had been a stressful morning and it was still a bit too early for booze. You were barely down the stairs when the doorbell rang, echoing eerily throughout the studio. 2D zipped past you, tripping over a few stairs in a rush to open the door first. You finally walked over to the door, where you noticed 2D staring at a large FedEx box.

 

“Murdoc, did you order summfink?” he asked.

 

“No,” you replied, confused. “Maybe Russ ordered some weird drum shit.”

 

“Well, I didn’t order anyfink,” 2D said.

 

“Oi Russ!” you yelled, hoping Russel could hear you. No response. You groaned, annoyed. Finally, a few minutes later, he shuffled sleepily over to you and 2D stood near the box.

 

“I was trying to sleep,” he yawned. “How’s your nose, Muds?”

 

“Hurtin’ like hell,” you snapped. “No thanks to you.”

 

“Russ,” 2D interjected. “Did you order anyfink? Is that box for you?”

 

Russel peered over at the box. “It ain’t mine. I didn’t order anything.”

 

“Oh,” you responded. “Maybe it was delivered to the wrong address.”

 

“Nope,” said Russel. “Says right here, clear as day. Addressed to the current residents of Kong Studios.”

 

“That’s odd,” you replied, and tapped on the box. “What d’ya think is in here anyways?”

 

Your question was quickly answered when the top of the box popped open and out leapt...a young girl holding a guitar.

 

At that moment, you couldn’t really process the situation enough to give an intellectual response so instead you just looked at the girl and voiced what everyone was thinking.

 

“What the fuck?” you said.

 

The girl began strumming the guitar, tuning it a bit. She then flashed a small grin and started playing quite an amazing guitar solo. You, 2D, and Russel just stared at her, shocked.

 

Russel raised an eyebrow, impressed. “How the hell…?”

 

The young girl finished her guitar solo by blurting out a bunch of random Japanese phrases and only one word you could understand: the word _noodle_.

 

She smiled again, looking up at the three of you for approval. 2D smiled back and began clapping. “You’re a very good guitarist,” he said to her, bending down to her height.

 

“Damn,” added Russel. “You got skills, girl. Skills.”

 

2D then looked up at you from where he was crouching next to the girl. “Can she join our band? Please?”

 

“Sure, whatever,” you said, shrugging. You really weren’t looking forward to having a child in the studio. You’ve never done well around children. They always seem to piss you off. You hoped that this girl, whoever she was, was not as rambunctious as most children. Then you would probably tolerate her more.

 

You turned and began heading inside. You then paused when you heard 2D begin talking again. You looked back at him. He had sat himself down next to the young girl. She watched him attentively as he began telling her about her new home. “Y’see,” he started. “This place is Kong Studios. It’s kinda spooky, but it’s our home. _Our_ meaning me, obviously, and Russ, he’s our drummer and he’s very friendly. Kinda quiet, but friendly. Then there’s Murdoc. Don’t be scared of Murdoc. He’s intimidatin’, but he can be nice sometimes. Well, nice to people who aren’t me. But since you’re not me, he’ll be nice to you. I hope you stay here with us. It’d be real nice. And I promise you that there’s nothin’ here that’ll hurt you. The zombies won’t hurt you and neither will Murdoc.”

 

She watched him with the trusting eyes of a child. Eyes that had never seen the shitty side of the world. Eyes that you realized you hoped never would. And at that moment, you did a very un-Murdoc thing. You turned and walked back over to 2D, Russel, and the girl.

 

“That’s right,” you said. “I ain’t gonna hurt you.”

 

Russel raised an eyebrow, clearly surprised by your niceties. But he said nothing, not wanting to wreck the moment of rare kindness you were showing.

 

“Does she have a name?” you asked 2D.

 

“Well,” he said. “I was thinkin’ of callin’ her Noodle. Cos’ that’s the only English word she seems to know.”

 

You looked down at her. “Y’like that? Noodle? D’ya think that’s a good name?”

 

“Noodle,” she agreed happily, her words trailing off into a string of rapid Japanese.

 

“I can’t understand ya,” you said, patting her on the head a bit awkwardly. Like you had mentioned previously, you’ve never done well with children and having a child around makes you a bit uncomfortable.

 

But she didn’t seem to notice your uncomfortableness, and she just blinked up at you innocently. You offered her a rare tiny smile. “Y’know,” you told her. “You ain’t as bad as I thought.”

 

2D stared at you and you scowled at him.“Yes, dullard? Is there something you need?”

 

He shrugged. “You should really smile more often,” he said. “I like it when you smile.”

 

Usually you would give him a typical Murdoc answer, like _I don’t give a shit about what you like. I’m Murdoc Niccals and I can do what I want._ But you instead choose to say nothing.

 

Russel yawned. “I’m going back to sleep,” he announced. “Welcome to the band, Noodle.” And with that, he shuffled back indoors.

 

2D lifted up Noodle onto his back. She clutched her guitar with one hand and held onto 2D’s shoulder with the other. 2D grinned. “Lemme find an empty room for you to stay in,” he said excitedly. He then marched back indoors as well, walking up the stairs and disappearing down a corridor.

 

You stood outside for a few more minutes, trying to enjoy the fresh air, but an unfortunately placed zombie ruins the moment and you quickly dash back inside to avoid getting attacked. You returned to the kitchen, grabbed the pack of cigarettes you had originally come downstairs to get before Noodle’s arrival, and zipped back up to your room.

 

You slammed the door to your room behind you, pulling off your shirt, and flopped down onto your bed. You lit a cigarette, and sighed contentedly. It had been quite a day.

 

So now here you are, laying on your bed, smoking and thinking. Thinking about how your band was finally complete again. Thinking about how badly you wanted this band to succeed. Thinking about how you wanted to prove that voice in your head saying _you’re a failure_ wrong.

 

You close your eyes, relaxing. Letting the worries of the day wash away in every exhale of smoke. Tomorrow was going to be another long day, you know that for sure. Because tomorrow is when you’re going to show everyone the ideas you’ve had for the band and the few songs you’ve written. Songs that you hope will play on the radio instead of those shitty pop songs that you despise.

 

You stub out your cigarette on the sheets of your bed and somehow your mind drifts to 2D and how he told you today that he liked it when you smile. _Fucking dullard._ That compliment got to you in ways you didn’t like. It made you, for just a split second, feel good. And that split second of basking in the warmth of praise made you vulnerable. How could that awful faceache have the ability to reach through the metaphorical barbed wire surrounding your heart and make you _feel_? If he learned he could toy with your emotions so easily, then he could reduce you to what you believed was nothing. And you, Murdoc Niccals, had spent your whole life trying to prove you were more than nothing. You then promise to yourself that you will not and can not let 2D affect you in any way possible. How he managed to in the first place is a mystery to you, but all you know is that he can never get to you like that again.

 

So what if that means you have to be more aggressive with the dullard? So what if you end up like your father? So what if that means he’ll end up hating you?

 

It doesn’t matter. It’s just another one of the sacrifices you have to make for the band and for yourself.


	11. The Unfortunate Thing About Running Out Of Alcohol (Aka The Burdens Of Having Emotions)

Your name is Murdoc Niccals, and you need to come to terms with the fact that you are starting to lose control of yourself.

 

It had been over a year since you had first met 2D, and you have to say that running his face over was quite a good decision. Because had you not run over his face, you wouldn’t have booked your first gig and wound up at the end of the night shaking the hands of the people who work at the record label your band (which you had named Gorillaz) was just signed to. You wouldn’t have begun writing an album. You wouldn’t have the fantasy of birds groveling at your feet and begging you to take them back home for a night of fun seem possible in the future. And you certainly wouldn’t have been able to get your band a real live gig.

 

You have to say, you owe a lot of the success to 2D. But it’s not like you’ll ever admit that to him.

 

You spend most of your days writing and recording music, and most of your nights in your Winnebago, your “love machine on wheels”. The Winnebago is the perfect place to smoke or drink or shag. Or do all three. You’re Murdoc fucking Niccals, and you can do whatever the hell you want.

 

But then there’s the occasional nights when you’re sober and all alone. And those nights are awful. Sitting out in a van by yourself and listening to the sounds of zombies shuffling about outdoors is kind of a pathetic way to spend a night. The only reason why you spend some nights like this are because you’ve run out of alcohol and cigarettes and you’re just too lazy to drive to a nearby store to get them. But you always regret not going out every time. Because nights like those are when the voices of fear and self-doubt in your head grow stronger and there’s nothing you can do but succumb to them.

 

Tonight was one of these lonely nights. The day had been long and grueling, filled with arguing over song lyrics and whether or not they were appropriate for Noodle to sing. You of course won the argument, which led to poor ten-year-old Noodle being stuck singing lyrics about turning one’s father on. You personally didn’t have an issue with the lyrics, but 2D and Russel both seemed to and of course 2D made a huge fucking deal about it and so then you had hit him. In front of Noodle. Which, you have to admit, wasn’t your best moment.  

 

So you had entered the Winnebago, hoping to blow off steam by drinking yourself into oblivion until you realized you were entirely out of alcoholic beverages. You then decided to calm down by murdering zombies with a shovel, which worked for a little while until one persistent one showed up that refused to die and nearly bit you and so you decided to return to the Winnebago and existentially ponder.

 

Now you lay on your bed, shirtless and exhausted, thoughts spiraling through your mind. Your thoughts, like usual, have drifted to your childhood. You close your eyes tightly and exhale in a feeble attempt attempting to push away the feelings of brokenness crushing you and pinning you down. And that’s when you hear a knock at the door.

 

You grab the zombie-killing shovel and walk towards the door cautiously. You really hope it’s not that awful zombie who refused to die. You’re not in the mood to put up a fight against an undead ape. You slowly creak open the door, shovel raised. It fortunately isn’t a zombie at the door. It’s actually 2D, which in your opinion isn’t much better.

 

“What d’ya want, faceache?” you ask.

 

“I brought you some food. You stormed out right after the argument and missed dinner,” he states.

 

“I’m not really hungry,” you reply. “What were you thinkin’, comin’ all the way out here? Y’could’ve been attacked by zombies. It’s dangerous at this time a night.”

 

“I didn’t really think about that,” he says. “I just thought you might want dinner so I brought you some.”

 

You sigh, exasperated. “That’s the problem with you, faceache. You never _think_.”

 

He looks at his feet dejectedly. You have to say, he paints quite a pathetic picture, standing out soaking wet in the rain, clutching a plastic bag containing your dinner, gaze fixated on the ground. And maybe it was the fact that he did something nice for you, or maybe it was just that you were having one of your lonely nights, but you then sigh again. “Why don’t you come on inside?” you say. “You’re gonna get sick from standin’ out in the rain.”

 

He shuffles in and awkwardly stands there. “Here, just set the food down over there,” you tell him. “I might eat it later.” He sets down the bag and keeps standing there, too nervous to move or say anything. Which is understandable, seeing that he’s with you and that most of the time when you two are together, you end up yelling at him or hurting him.

 

“Y’can take a seat, y’know,” you say. “I ain’t gonna hurt you. Not tonight.”

 

He tentatively plops down on the floor near the foot of your bed, a bit confused by your strange niceness. “What are you doing out here anyways?” he inquires.

 

“I was gonna get myself drunk but I ran out of everything. So I was just sittin’ in here and thinkin’ about shit instead.”

 

“What were you thinkin’ about?”

 

You shrug. “Nothin’ of importance. Just stupid shit.”

 

There’s a brief silence between the two of you. You shuffle over to make room for 2D on the bed, and he settles down next to you, seeming a bit more comfortable.

 

“Doesn’t it get lonely out here, Murdoc?”

 

“Nah,” you say. “I don’t get lonely.”

 

2D looks at you. “Everyone gets lonely sometimes, Murdoc. Even you.” He pauses, thinking. “In fact, I think you were sittin’ out here bein’ lonely until I got here.”

 

You raise an eyebrow. “And why do you think that, dullard?”

 

“Because,” he responds, his voice quavering a bit. “Because that’s why you haven’t thrown me out of your van yet. Because you don’t wanna be lonely.”

 

Silence.

 

He taps your shoulder. “Murdoc, are you alright?”

 

You want to tell him you’re fine. You want to tell him to _go fuck off, dullard, I don’t want you here_. But you don’t. You just close your eyes and exhale loudly.

 

“Are you...cryin’?” 2D asks.

 

“No,” you say gruffly. “M’not cryin’. I’m Murdoc fuckin’ Niccals and I don’t cry.”

 

“I’m sure you cry sometimes,” 2D replies.

 

You scoff. “I don’t cry. Cryin’ is for babies, distraught teenage girls, and emotionally unbalanced young men like you.”

 

2D says nothing. He just stares at you, and you know he’s attempting to figure you out. But it’s not going to be easy for him. You’re Murdoc Niccals, and you’re a mystery to both yourself and others. But 2D seems to know how to read you, which you find terrifying. One of your biggest fears is someone being able to unlock all of the padlocks and untangle the barbed wire twisted around your heart, and the fact that 2D could be that someone is shit straight out of your nightmares.

 

You lean back onto the pillows of your bed, yawning. “Are you gonna go back to your room or are you gonna sleep here with me?” you ask.

 

2D presses his fingertips together nervously. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to stay here. I don’t wanna walk all the way back. It’s spooky out there at night.”

 

“Fine,” you grumble. “Clear a spot for yourself on the floor. Don’t make too much noise or I’ll kick you out.”

 

He nods but still stays sitting on the bed. You shove him, a bit more gentle than usual. “Move over, faceache. I need some bloody sleep.”

 

“M’sorry,” he replies, his voice dropping to a whisper.

 

You turn onto your side and close your eyes, trying to ignore 2D’s presence. But it’s hard to block out the feel of him just sitting there next to you, awake while you sleep. You keep attempting to pretend you’re all alone, but any attempts that were going well automatically failed when you feel 2D’s hand brush yours.

 

“Y’know,” he whispers to you, not realizing that you’re overhearing every word he says. “You’re quite beautiful when you sleep. You seem so at peace. Like you’re not angry anymore.” He pauses, sighing. “Why are you always so angry at the world, Murdoc? What did it do to you to make you hate it? What did _I_ do to make you hate me?”

 

A strange anger boils within you as you hear 2D’s words. “Out,” you snap.

 

2D jumps to his feet, surprised. “W-what?”

 

“I said _out_. As in, _get the fuck out of the bloody Winnebago._ ”

 

“B-b-but it’s dark and dangerous outside!” he protests. “Why can’t I stay anymore?”

 

“You just can’t,” you snarl. “Now leave. You’re not gonna die out there.”

 

“B-but, Murdoc, I…” he stammers.

 

“Just go, dullard. I don’t want you here.”

 

“Fine.” He storms out of the Winnebago and slams the door closed. You get to your feet and watch him through a window, watch him walk away, hunched over in the rain.

 

You keep watching to make sure he’s gotten inside the studio safely, and then you shuffle back over to your bed. _What a fucking puff,_ you think to yourself. _Why does he have to be so...touchy?_

 

You try to pretend that what 2D said doesn’t affect you. Like you don’t care. You don’t want to admit that you do care, you care way too much even though you’re not supposed to. Because if you start caring, your heart will be vulnerable once more.

 

His words keep plaguing your mind, whispering in your ear _beautiful, Murdoc, you’re beautiful when you sleep_.

 

2D’s touch still lingers on your fingertips.

 

You never thought fear and shame could go together so easily.


	12. The Success You Never Thought You’d Have

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the delay. i was extremely busy with school starting up and holidays and shit.
> 
> but here you go! i promise this chapter is worth the wait.
> 
> <3

Your name is Murdoc Niccals, and if this is what fame feels like, you think you rather like it. 

 

Fame, you have learned, seems to come with all benefits and no setbacks. You somehow can shag even more birds than you did before. People, real live people, are listening to your music. So many people seem to love you. But the best part is that you’ve finally received some of the validation you’ve craved your whole life. 

 

A long time ago, a young man summoned Satan and traded his soul for fame, a bass, and a less stupid middle name. You were that young man. It was totally worth your soul. 

 

Your band had its first gig tonight, thanks to yours truly. Weeks ago you had talked to the owners of an ever-popular bar, the Camden Brownhouse, to see if your band could perform a few of its songs there. The fact that you had previously known the owners beforehand and that you were a frequent patron of the bar had probably increased your chances of a positive reaction. And due to these facts, almost immediately the owners said yes. 

 

So everyone had piled into your newly purchased Geep and you had set off to London to perform in front of people for the first time.

 

Noodle had sat eagerly in the backseat, clearly excited. She kept kicking around her small feet happily, a huge grin on her face. You couldn’t really tell whether she was excited for tonight’s gig or just excited to be in the car. Either way, it was pretty adorable, you had to admit. 

 

“You excited, Noodle?” you asked.

 

She nodded happily. “Noodle!” she echoed, still mostly unable to communicate in English.

 

You chuckled. “I’m excited too. It’s our first time performing together y’know.” 

 

“2D an’ Russ an’ Murdoc an’ Noodle?” she asked. “Gorillaz?”

 

“That’s right,” you told her. “Gorillaz. Our band.”

 

She flashed a huge grin filled with pure childlike energy. And you couldn’t help but smile back at her. 

 

After what seemed like ages of driving, you finally arrived at the Camden Brownhouse as the sun began to slope downwards and disappear behind a copse of trees. 

 

You parked the Geep a few blocks away and began to briskly walk towards the Camden Brownhouse, Noodle and Russel following close behind. 

 

After a few minutes of walking, you noticed 2D just standing there, watching the rest of the band walk in front of him. You paused. “You two go on without me,” you said to Russel and Noodle. “I’ll be there in a bit.” 

 

You lagged behind the others, waiting for 2D to catch up to you. “Why are you so bloody slow?” you said. “It’ll be over by the time you finally get your lazy arse to the place.”

 

“I’m a little bit nervous,” he replied, steepling his fingertips anxiously. “Never sang in front of anyone before.” 

 

You scoffed. “Is that what you’re nervous about, denthead? The people are gonna love you.”

 

He didn’t seem convinced. “B-but what if I muck it all up?” 

 

“You better not,” you snarled. “I’m countin’ on you. This is our first real performance.”

 

He munched on his fingernails, seeming even more afraid. You reached over and pulled his hands away from his mouth. “Don’t bite your bloody nails,” you told him. “It’s fuckin’ nasty.” 

 

“You know I do it when I’m scared,” he replied. 

 

“Well, there’s nothin’ to be afraid of, dullard. You’ll do fine. You always do.” 

 

He seemed to soften a bit due your reassuring words. “Alright,” he said, a new air of confidence in his voice. “Let’s go.”

 

The two of you walked the rest of the way to the Camden Brownhouse in silence, yet the quietness seemed to be overwhelmingly loud, like something was being held back, like something important was supposed to be said but it just wasn’t. 

 

Finally you and 2D met up with the others near the front door. “You ready, ‘D?” Russel inquired. 

 

He nodded. “Yeah,” he responded, still a bit unsure. 

 

“How ‘bout you, Noodle?”

 

“Noodle!” she chirped eagerly. 

 

Russel then turned to you. “And you, Muds? Are you ready?”

 

You grinned. “I’ve been ready my whole life.”

 

The four of you had entered the Camden Brownhouse and quickly sorted a few things out before the performance. 

 

Now you find yourself standing on stage, cradling your precious bass, 2D a little bit in front of you at the microphone, and Noodle with her guitar and Russel on the drums behind you. 

 

“‘Ello, everyone,” 2D shouts into the microphone. “We are Gorillaz!” 

 

And that’s when Russel begins drumming, and all four of you are sucked into the music. 

 

The crowd also seems to be sucked into the music, because people start setting their drinks down and getting up and dancing like maniacs. 

 

However, the dancing begins to get more and more wild and soon the few people dancing morphs into a crazed frenzy of people jumping around and swarming the stage. 

 

Noodle glances at you confusedly and makes a one-handed gesture to the crowd. 

 

“They love us,” you mouthed. “They’re cheerin’ for us.”

 

The crowd of dancing seems to turn aggressive as one person tries to shove their way to the front. He soon disappears under everyone’s feet. You raise an eyebrow, a bit impressed at the crowd’s insanity and obsession with your music.

 

A crash rings out, and 2D jumps a bit, slightly nervous. You look around and quickly discover the source of the sound was someone throwing their friend out the window. Classic rioting behavior. 

 

The song is barely halfway done, and 2D never gets the chance to finish because the crowd begins overflowing up onto the stage and you find yourself getting carried away by the crowd. 

 

Still holding onto your bass, you decide that this is the perfect opportunity to take off your shirt. So you do. 

 

The crowd goes wild. You can’t tell whether it’s from your shirtlessness or the fact that part of the crowd began carrying 2D away.

 

“Murdoc!” Faceache shrieks. “Aren’t you gonna to help me?”

 

“Nah,” you reply, shrugging. “You’ll be fine.” And with that, you launch yourself into the crowd eagerly. 

 

It felt quite nice being carried around by people. What was even better were the few hands snaking down your chest and sliding beneath your jeans. You hadn’t shagged a bird since Paula, and you’re certainly looking to change that. 

 

And soon you find yourself pressed against the wall next to three stunningly beautiful birds, and your tongue is tangling with the tongue of one and your fingers are somewhere else on another. The third keeps planting kisses across your neck and shoulders and back, whispering lustful words against your skin. 

 

“You’re gorgeous,” she says. “God, you’re so fucking beautiful.”

 

“I know I am,” you whisper back cockily, pulling away from the bird you were snogging. 

 

The third bird giggles into your shoulder, her laughs muffled. Sarcastically, she murmurs, “You’re a humble one, aren’t you?”

 

“The humblest,” you respond, moving your occupied hand upward and eliciting a pleasured whine from the bird whose skirt your hand was down. 

 

The next hour turns into a blur. As Russel attempts to keep Noodle from being pulled away into the crowd and as 2D struggles to regain his footing, you pour more alcohol down your throat and shag nearly everyone within a ten-foot radius of you. 

 

Finally, someone goes overboard with the riot and promptly lights a discarded shirt on fire. Which triggers the fire alarms and soon the party’s over and everyone is forced to evacuate.

 

You manage to reclothe yourself by the time most people exit and you lead the rest of the crowd who are still indoors out into the crisp November air.

 

You finally reunite with the rest of your band outside. “Where were you?” Russel asks. “We were lookin’ for you.” 

 

“I’ve been around,” you reply nonchalantly, a pleased smirk on your face.

 

“Around fuckin’ everyone,” he grumbles, jamming his hands into his pockets annoyedly. 

 

“I nearly got lost,” 2D announces. 

 

“I know, dullard. We all bloody saw. You don’t need to remind us,” you snap. 

 

2D dejectedly looks at the ground. “M’sorry.”

 

Noodle then interjects your arguing with a loud “Noodle!”

 

You turn to look at her. “What is it?”

 

She says nothing in response, just points to where a sharply-dressed young man is walking briskly towards you. 

 

“You’re the leader of that band that played tonight, right?” the unfamiliar man questions. 

 

“That’s right,” you respond. “What do y’want?”

 

He grins, one of those grins only presidents and telemarketers can do. “I’m Mr. Wiffy Smiffy of EMI Records. Your performance tonight was insane! Your song you played was truly like no other musical group’s.” He pauses dramatically. “I’d like to offer you guys a record deal.”

 

You can hardly contain your excitement. You exhale loudly, trying to calm yourself down. “I think we’d like that very much.”

 

“Good!” he says. “Here’s my card. Call us within the next two weeks to discuss album recording and releasing.” He thrusts a business card into your hand, then walks away politely with a cheerful, “Have a splendid rest of the night!”

 

_ Splendid?  _ Eugh. You usually hate people who still use words like  _ marvelous  _ and  _ splendid _ , but at the moment it’s truly hard to hate that man. He did offer your band a record deal, after all. 

 

You turn back to look at the rest of your band. Russel is holding Noodle and spinning her around as she adorably shrieks with excitement. You can’t help but smile one of your rare genuine smiles. 

 

“Where’s the dullard?” you inquire to Russel.

 

He doesn’t reply verbally. He just points over to where 2D happened to be making out with some girl.

 

Wait, what? 

 

You march over to 2D and the unfamiliar woman he’s snogging. “Oi, faceache, who the hell is  _ she _ ?”

 

He pulls away from her, his face flushing. “Oh, uh, Murdoc, this is Rachel. My girlfriend.”

 

“When did you get another bloody girlfriend?” you snarl.

 

2D says, “We started datin’ a couple weeks ago.”

 

A pang of anger shoots through you. “And you didn’t think to tell me?”

 

“Well,” he replies cautiously. “I didn’t want y’to steal her like you stole Paula.” 

 

“I didn’t steal - y’know what, fuck this. I’m not gonna have another bloody argument about that with you, denthead.” And with that, you storm off, your mood blackened once more.

 

As you walk away, you feel jealously boiling deep within you. 

 

But a little part of you can’t exactly tell whether you’re jealous of 2D for having her, or her for having him. 


	13. The Unfortunate Events 2: Electric Boogaloo

Your name is Murdoc Niccals, and you really should stop ruining 2D’s love life, but it’s just too fun not to do.

 

2D had done the same thing with Rachel he used to do with Paula, which is to say he brought her home and fucked her noisily all throughout the night.

 

Russel had made the fortunate purchase of noise-cancelling headphones which kept him asleep at night, but unfortunately you nor Noodle had foresaught to buy a pair. Yet again, you never would have thought 2D would end up with a new girlfriend that quickly.

 

You sat at the table alone that first night, a cigarette between your lips, until Noodle tiptoed downstairs, silent as a cat.

 

“Murdoc?” she whispered.

 

Your head snapped up, startled by her silent approach. “You shouldn’t be up this late, poppet. D’ya need anythin’?”

 

She cocked her head, a bit confused. “2D...hurt?” she asked.

 

Raising an eyebrow, you inquired, “Why d’ya ask that?”

 

“Noise,” she answered. “No sleep.”

 

You snorted. “S’not a pain sound,” you said. “It’s somethin’ else.”

 

“What?” she questioned, gazing up at you with innocent eyes. You really wished her ears stayed innocent too. Fuck 2D and his stupid girlfriend for ruining Noodle’s childhood innocence with obnoxious sex noises.

 

“I’ll tell y’when you’re older,” you responded gruffly.

 

She nodded and settled down in the chair across from you, her legs a good couple of inches above the floor.

 

You had taken a long drag of your cigarette. It was going to be a long night.

 

Noodle looked at you. “Murdoc sad?” she said, reaching over to pat your hand comfortingly.

 

“No,” you replied. “Why d’ya think I’m sad?”

 

“Murdoc alone,” she said. “Lonely.”

 

“Why does everyone think I’m lonely?” you responded rather aggressively. “There’s a difference between bein’ alone and bein’ lonely. M’not fucking lonely.”

 

She blinked up at you, confused. You sighed. “No, Noodle, I’m not sad. Y’don’t need to worry about me.” You stubbed out your cigarette against the table and headed over to scoop Noodle up into your arms.

 

“It’s time for you to head back to bed,” you told her, beginning to walk up the stairs to her room. “Y’need sleep.”

 

“But...noise,” she protested, clinging to your shoulders and burying her face in your neck stubbornly.

 

“You’ll be able to fall asleep eventually, poppet. Tomorrow I’ll talk to 2D about the noise problem and I promise this shit won’t happen again.” You opened the door to her room and sat down on the foot of her bed. “Now get off me and get in bed.”

 

She reluctantly let go of you and shimmied under the covers, pulling the blankets up to her chin. “Night, Murdoc!” she whispered.

 

“G’night, Noodle,” you responded, ruffling her hair affectionately, and slowly exiting her room.

 

You shuffled back downstairs and sat at the table, alone except for a bottle of vodka you stole from the pantry. “Lonely,” you scoffed. “I’m Murdoc fucking Niccals. I’m not lonely.”

 

 _Aren’t you?_ said the voice inside your head, the one that sounded so much like your father. _You’re pathetic. You can’t deny how lonely you are._

 

You pretended to ignore the voice. “Local sex god goes crazy and starts hearin’ things that ain’t there,” you chuckled to yourself, taking a swig of vodka. “Breakin’ news at 11.”

 

 _You can’t hide your loneliness for long,_ whispered the voice. _What do you want, Murdoc?_

 

“You’re some weird manifestation of me, ain’t you?” you snarled. “Y’should know what I bloody want.”

 

 _I know what you want,_ was the reply. _But do you know?_

 

“I want to get so fuckin’ plastered I forget my own name,” you snickered. “Now leave me alone so I can do what I want.”

 

The next morning, 2D apparently had shuffled downstairs to pour himself a glass of orange juice and tripped over you, waking you up from where you were passed out in the middle of the floor. Or so he told you.

 

You immediately had gotten to your feet and slapped him across the face. Hard.

 

“Murdoc!” he whimpered, tears springing up in the corners of his eyes. “What was that for?”

 

“You were makin’ so much bloody noise last night,” you growled. “Can’t you shut the fuck up for once?”

 

“M’sorry,” he said, wiping away a stray tear with the back of his hand.

 

“You really should be,” you replied, shoving him. “Y’kept me and Noodle up all night long. Can’t you take her somewhere else? Nobody wants to hear that.”

 

He sadly poured himself a glass of orange juice, and trudged back up to his room dejectedly. “Don’t hole yourself up in there all day,” you snarled. “We’ve got our record signin’ party tonight.”

 

He didn’t respond, only kept on dragging himself upstairs. You grunted annoyedly and poured yourself a bowl of cereal. You ate it quite angrily. Most of that anger was directed towards 2D. Faceache really got on your nerves sometimes. And by sometimes you meant _most of the time_. And by most of the time you meant _every single fuckin’ day._ You were sick of it. Sick of his stupidity and the weird way he talked and how he always said shit that made you want to hit him. And especially sick of his little girlfriends.

 

That evening, all of you had piled into the Geep and driven to this ritzy little club on the good side of town. Faceache had decided to sit in the back next to his girlfriend so they could be disgusting together the whole car ride there, and so Noodle was promoted to the passenger seat.

 

Russel didn’t seem to mind the switch. “It’s cool,” he had said. “I need to stay in the back anyways. I wanna make sure they don’t do something stupid.”

 

When you finally arrived, you sat back in the car and watched the rest of the band enter the club. You sat there in the car, and you pondered. You needed to get Rachel to break up with 2D. You couldn’t take anymore nighttime sex noises. It was driving you mad. And you also wanted to suppress that little feeling of jealousy within you, the jealously that was certainly due to the fact that 2D had a girlfriend and nothing else. Nothing. Else.

 

It made you feel better about breaking them up if you told yourself you were doing it not only for the sake of your sanity but for Noodle’s sake too. You really didn’t want poor Noodle to endure any more of 2D’s loud high-pitched moaning.

 

So then you plastered a grin onto your face, one of those grins that meant you wanted to either murder someone or have sex. You couldn’t really tell yet which of those two you were going to do. You preferred the latter option, of course, but there was no telling what lengths you were going to need to take.

 

You sauntered into the club, and pushed your way past a group of dancing teenagers to where the rest of the band as well as some of the record label workers. After shaking multiple hands and sitting through a few relatively dry conversations about money and recording and _kids these days_ , you decide to make a move on 2D’s girlfriend.

 

You spotted her sitting by herself, clutching a drink in her left hand. She noticed you and frowned as you saddled up next to her. “Hello, luv,” you crooned, resting your arm around her shoulders. She quickly pushed you away.

 

“I’m not your ‘luv’,” she snapped.

 

You ordered something to drink, something strong and bitter. “Why so blue?” you asked, your voice oozing with sickeningly saccharine poison. “Oh, that’s right. You’re datin’ Faceache.” You take a large sip of your drink.

 

“Why’re you so mean to him?” she inquired. “What’d he ever do to you?”

 

You chuckled. “Just his existence pisses me off. He’s such a bloody idiot.”

 

She shrugged. “He may be stupid, but he’s really sweet.”

 

“Then why’d he leave you here all by yourself?” you questioned, sipping your drink.

 

She said nothing, just stared at the table.

 

“Something wrong?” you said.

 

She blinked, and turned back to you. “He can be a bit distant, but I don’t care. He’s still a good boyfriend.”

 

You grinned and placed your hand on top of hers. “Oh, come on, luv. Don’t you want more in a man? Someone...dark, smolderingly handsome, and mysterious?”

 

She blinked. “Like who?” she said, a smug smile on her lips. “I don’t know anyone who fits that definition.”

 

You flipped her off, frustrated.  “There’s so many other blokes you could be with, but y’had to choose that dullard. I don’t understand you.”

 

“What’s there to understand?” she responded. “I’m not questioning your choice in birds. You can stick your knob into whoever you want. Why do you care that I’m going out with 2D?”

 

“Because,” you answered. “Because it’s fuckin’ 2D, that’s why.”

 

She paused for a bit, thinking. Taking another sip of her drink, she jerked her hand out from under yours. “Are you jealous?” she asked.

 

You nearly spat out your drink in surprise. “Me? Jealous? Naw. I’m Murdoc Niccals. What is there for me to be jealous of?”

 

Rachel just smiled softly. “You’re jealous of me, aren’t you?”

 

“Wh-what? What would I be jealous of you for?” you spluttered.

 

She got to her feet as she noticed 2D approaching you two. “You should ask yourself that,” she said. “You’d be surprised as to what the answer is.”

 

Your gaze still remained on her as she walked away. You kept sitting there, sloshing your cup around emptily, blankly watching the ripples in your vodka you created.

 

You had another drink. Maybe two. Maybe three. You couldn’t really tell. Your head spun and at one point you remembered Russel telling you that he was going to take Noodle home so she could go to bed.

 

And here you are now, still sitting. You finally get up after what seems like an hour so you could continue your extremely neglected plan. But when you manage to shuffle within earshot of Rachel and 2D, the plan already seems to be playing out.

 

“2D,” you hear her say. “I just don’t think this is right for us. You’re a sweet person and all, but I doubt that a romance between us will work out.”

 

“B-but Rachel,” 2D whimpers, looking at her with a pathetic expression on his face.

 

“I’m sorry,” she responds, offering him a sad smile. “I should go.” And with that, Rachel Stevens, just like Paula, slips out of your lives.

 

2D collapses onto the ground and buries his face into his knees, poorly attempting to muffle his sobs. “Rachel,” he whispers.

 

“She ain’t here,” you grunt, sitting down next to him.

 

“Oh, it’s _you_ ,” he sniffs. “I saw you flirtin’ with her. You were tryin’ to break us up, right? Well, looks like your plan worked. Hooray for you.”

 

You’re a bit taken aback by the anger in his voice. “I wanted you two to break up, but I don’t think what I said to her made her do it,” you tell him. “She seemed to have liked you a lot.”

 

“Apparently not,” 2D bitterly says. “Love ain’t supposed to hurt. Why’s it hurtin’ so much, Murdoc?”

 

No response. You just sit there, trying to hold onto a single cohesive thought.

 

“What do you want, Murdoc?” he whispers.

 

You know exactly what you want.

 

And that’s when you pull his body atop yours and slam your lips into his.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for such a wait! writers block can be such a bitch. 
> 
> i’m writing this a few hours before i see gorillaz in concert for the first time!! i’m so excited.
> 
> anyways, enjoy the chapter. i really enjoyed writing this one. <3


	14. The Paralytic Dreams That We All Seem To Keep

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> just a lil warning, some sexytimes happen here. if that stuff make you uncomfy, just skip this chapter or pm me on tumblr for the more PG version of this.

Your name is Stuart Pot, and - no. You are not Stuart Pot anymore. You have not gone by that name for a long time.

 

Your name is 2D, and you are kissing Murdoc. Rather, Murdoc is kissing you.

 

You remember asking him what he wanted. You were actually quite curious as to what the answer was. And then he grabbed your shoulders and heaved you forward onto him and collided his lips into yours.

 

Surprised, you didn’t kiss him back. Your mind was too busy trying to wrap itself around the concept that _Murdoc was kissing you_.

 

He jerks away, then roughly shoves you off of him. Visibly angry, he gets to his feet and crosses his arms.

 

“Murdoc,” you say.

 

“I should go,” he snaps, and begins to storm off.

 

You follow him throughout the crowd and out the doors to where he leans against the wall outside the club, attempting to light a cigarette. He glares at you when he notices you trailing behind him.

 

“Stop followin’ me, dullard,” snarls Murdoc. “Sod off. I don’t want you here.”

 

“Why?” you ask.

 

He says nothing.

 

And now it’s your turn to kiss him. So you do. You press your lips against his, tentatively, nervously. You feel the corners of his mouth quirk up at your forwardness, and he kisses you back, this time much more gentle and calm than the last. His fingers tangle in your hair and his tongue explores your mouth, while yours explores his. You feel his free hand creep up the front of your shirt and press against your bare skin, tracing along your ribs and grazing your collarbone.

 

“Murdoc,” you whine, pulling away. “Can we take this somewhere a little less...public?”

 

He smirks. “Why? There’s nobody here.”

 

“But someone could see us!” you protest.

 

Grumbling, he says, “Fine. We’ll take a taxi home and continue this in the Winnebago.”

 

The ride home was extraordinarily tense, with you and Murdoc sitting in dead silence and refusing to make eye contact. Your fingers brushed his accidentally, and he yanked his hand away as if he had been scalded. Confused and a bit hurt, you turn away and gaze out the window, trying to ignore the anticipation and yearning coursing through you and settling in your groin.

 

Finally, after what seemed like an eon of driving, the taxi dropped you and Murdoc off right outside the studio gates. The second the taxi pulled away, he pulls you into a searing kiss and the two of you stumble towards the Winnebago, a haze of lust clouding your better judgement.

 

If you were in your right mind, you would have pulled away. Ran before he could hit you. Told him you didn’t want him, although you know it would have been a lie. But you’re not in your right mind, so you stay, trying to push away the fear of him hurting you. Because you had wanted this for so fucking long.

 

The door to the Winnebago slams shut behind you, and Murdoc practically pounces on you, shoving you onto the bed and nipping and kissing his way down your neck. He pulls away for a split second, but only to tug off his shirt.

 

You had seen Murdoc shirtless a multitude of times, but this time felt so much different. This time you could reach out and run your hands down his chest, learning every last inch of him through touch. You press kisses across his collarbone and down the lean cording of muscle, stopping hesitantly above the waistband of his jeans. You blink up at him, still a bit terrified of him and the entire situation.

 

“Dullard, why’d you stop?” he snickers, his hands moving to the small of your back and pressing you against him. He leans forward and captures you into another kiss. “Off,” he murmurs against your mouth, tugging at your shirt. You do as he says, sliding your shirt over your head and tossing it onto the floor.

 

Murdoc props himself above you and lets his eyes roam across the expanse of skin you had just revealed. You shyly turn your head and look away, feeling a bit embarrassed and self-conscious. “You’re so beautiful, faceache,” he whispers to you, a tone of gentleness in his voice that you had never heard before. “So fuckin’ gorgeous.”

 

His hands map out your body, brushing his fingers across the hollows between your ribs and the slope of your stomach, which shudders at his touch. You can’t help but wonder why he’s being so cautious with you, why he’s caressing you like you’re made of glass.

 

And then it all comes crashing down. He’s so fucking plastered. He has no idea what he’s doing. He sure as hell won’t remember this in the morning. And if he does, it’s curtains for you. _Au revoir, faceache._

 

You could run. Pull away and let your legs take you to the sanctuary of your room. But then Murdoc’s hands slip lower and begin palming at you through your jeans, and any sensibility left within you fades.

 

“Murdoc,” you moan, holding him closer to you needily. His fingers begin to work at the zipper of your jeans, and he eventually slides them off of you. You shiver a bit, the cold air chilling your body.

 

“You’re so lovely,” he tells you, and plants kisses along your angular hip bones, mouthing at you through your briefs. You whimper loudly, craving his touch and rocking your hips against his mouth.

 

He then stops, and you whine due to lack of attention. You know you’re painting such a pretty portrait of patheticism right now, but you just can’t help yourself. Murdoc is just too goddamn alluring. He grins and shucks off his jeans, tossing them into a pile of other probably unwashed clothing. You gingerly reach out and trace over the swell in his briefs. His eyelids flutter and he sighs loudly, hips twitching at your touch.

 

Smirking, he leans forward and kisses you again fervorously, his hands roaming over your body as if he was trying to touch every last inch of you. His lips work their way along your jawline and hover right above your ear, where he whispers, “All of this means nothin’, got it, luv? Just another shag. We’ll never speak of this again.”

 

 _This means nothing_. All you are to him is nothing. How stupid you were to think that Murdoc would have ever wanted to shag you for purposes other than his own sick pleasure. How idiotic those thoughts of him actually caring about you were.

 

You sit up and jerk yourself out of his grasp. “Why can’t it mean somethin’?” you inquire. “I thought...this was what you wanted. I asked you what you wanted, and…and you started snoggin’ me.”

 

“Do you wanna know what I want, faceache?” he snarls.

 

You shake your head no.

 

“I want you to put your clothes on and get your scrawny arse out of the bloody Winnebago.” He crosses his arms and sits there on the edge of the bed, waiting for you to leave.

 

Your heart twists and you attempt to hide the tears threatening to emerge from the corners of your eyes. Numbly you pull your clothes back on and exit, slamming the door behind you. Only when you’re out of Murdoc’s range of sight do you cry.

 

When you return to your room, the feel of his fingers still lingers on your body. You retrace his touches with your hands. But your hands just don’t quite feel the same.

 

—————————————————————

 

Your name is Murdoc Niccals, and one of your greatest flaws is that you don’t think before you speak.

 

If you did think before you spoke, Faceache would still be beneath you right now. His lips would still be on yours. You wouldn’t have been frustratingly half-hard with your hand down your knickers like a desperate teenager.

 

You pull out a cigarette, putting it between your lips and leaning back into your bed. You sigh. This required more than just a cigarette. Rummaging through the pockets of a worn-out questionably stained pair of jeans, you discover an old hand-rolled blunt of yours. You quickly replace your cigarette with it and light up.

 

The air fills with a smoky haze of weed, and you close your eyes, inhaling deeply. Your hands keep wandering about, making futile attempts to finish what 2D started. But you can’t keep thinking about 2D. That’s why you decided to get high in the first place, anyways.

 

Because maybe getting high would take your mind off of him. Maybe it would make you forget what you said. _This means nothing._

 

You have learned a lot of things in the few decades you’ve lived through. You have obtained a fair amount of knowledge. And you certainly know, and you can no longer deny it, that you care about Faceache in ways you don’t want.

 

“Fuck love,” you grumble to yourself. “I’m Murdoc fuckin’ Niccals an’ I don’t need that shit.”

 

You won’t care. You can’t care. You’ll convince yourself in time that all he is to you and all he’ll ever be is just another shag, won’t you?

 

Lying to yourself doesn’t do shit.

 

You can hide your feelings from the world but you can’t hide them from yourself.

 

The voices in your head whisper _what do you want, Murdoc, what is it that you need_.

 

You know what you want. You know what you need.

 

How hard it is to want what you can never have.  


	15. The Morning After Last Night

Your name is Murdoc Niccals, and you have quite a painful hangover this morning.

 

Yawning, you sit up in bed, cracking your back, and a searing pain shoots through your head. “Bloody hell,” you say to nobody in particular as you shuffle over to a pile of clothing to find something relatively decent-smelling to wear.

 

Most of your mornings begin this way, with an annoying hangover and no recollection of...oh. Last night’s events come rushing back into your head, of you touching 2D and kissing him and nearly fucking him.

 

 _“Why can’t it mean somethin’?”_ you hear his words echo _. “I thought this was what you wanted.”_

 

You shake your head to clear it all away. Last night was in the past. If you don’t dwell on it then it won’t matter.

 

Now in quite an unpleasant mood, you shuck on a crusty pair of jeans and trudge out of the Winnebago (which still smells strongly of weed and sex from last night...no, stop thinking about last night) and into the studios.

 

Noodle and Russel are already sitting at the kitchen counter eating breakfast, and you plop down next to them and slump against the cold granite.

 

“You’re up early,” Russel says through a mouthful of toast.

 

You make an obnoxious groaning noise and hide your face in the countertop.

 

“Murdoc hurt?” asks Noodle, sipping her glass of milk.

 

“He woke up on the wrong side of the bed,” Russel explains to her. “He’s in a ripe mood today.”

 

Noodle responds with a solemn “Oh,” and taps your shoulder. You look up to see her offering you a strip of bacon.

 

“Thanks, Noodle,” you gruffly say, shoving the piece of bacon into your mouth rather aggressively.

 

Russel finishes eating his toast, and inquires, “Why are you so grouchy this morning?”

 

“It’s none of your fuckin’ business,” you snarl.

 

He seems unfazed by your harshness. “Did you have a bad fuck or something?”

 

You’re caught a bit off guard by his statement and you can tell he knows it. “T-that’s a load of bollocks! I’m just hungover from…” You stop yourself before you can say _last night_.

 

“From what?” Russel presses, scraping some scrambled eggs onto Noodle’s plate. “Here,” he tells her. She grins and eagerly begins scarfing down the eggs.

 

You’re about to answer him with some snide remark, and that’s when 2D walks downstairs. His hair is disheveled and he’s still wearing the same clothes from yesterday. He looks absolutely miserable.

 

He traipses over and flops into the seat next to Noodle. She immediately wraps her arms around him and smiles up at him eagerly. “Mornin’, Noodle,” he wearily says. She offers him some of her food and he declines, claiming he’s too exhausted to eat. It seems that _last night_ took a worse toll on him than it did on you.

 

Russel, ever the eagle eyed, gets 2D’s attention with a snap of his fingers and subtly gestures to his own neck. “Who were you with last night?” he mouths to 2D. “She did a number on you.”

 

You glance over to see what Russel’s yammering on about, and you then notice the large hickey on 2D’s neck that you had left there yourself.

 

Your first thought is, _Fuck, I should have been more gentle._

 

Your second thought is, _Stop thinking about last night._

 

2D fidgets uncomfortably, yanking the collar of his shirt up in a vain attempt to conceal the hickey, which exposes a thin sliver of skin below the hem of his shirt, skin that your fingers traced last night.

 

_“You’re so beautiful, faceache,” you whisper to him. “So fuckin’ gorgeous.”  Your hands map out his body, brushing your fingers across the hollows between his ribs and the slope of his stomach, which shudders at your touch..._

 

You slam your glass of water down against the table to propel you out of more thoughts of last night. Noodle jumps a bit in surprise then skips over to where you’re sitting. “Murdoc!” she says chidingly, uprighting your glass and cleaning up the spilled water with a paper towel.

 

“Y’didn’t have to clean that up, y’know. I could’ve done it,” you tell her, affectionately ruffling her hair. She just smiles at you and pats your hand, aware of your hatred of hugs.

 

“Oh, Noodle,” Russel says, chuckling. “We don’t deserve you.” He scoops her up from behind and she shrieks with delight as he spins her around the room. Eventually Russel puts her down and she tugs on his hand, pulling him out of the kitchen and up the stairs so she could show him one of her newest video games.

 

Which leaves just you and 2D left in the kitchen.

 

You get to your feet, about to leave, when 2D quietly says, “Murdoc, wait.”

 

Whirling around, you growl, “What the hell do you want, dullard?”

 

He glances at the kitchen counter nervously. “About l-last night…” he begins.

 

“What about last fuckin’ night? It’s in the past now. Can’t we just forget about it? I was plastered as fuck and I made another shit decision,” you snarl. “It meant abso-bloody-lutely nothin’.”

 

“B-but you said you wanted me,” 2D retorts. “You’ve said I was pretty when you’ve been sober too. Does this really mean nothin’?”

 

Angrily, you hiss, “Yes, denthead, it means nothin’. Get that through your thick skull. It always will mean nothin’. All you are to me is just another failed shag.”

 

Your heart twinges painfully at your own words. But you’re doing this for your own good, you remind yourself, so it’s worth all of the pain.

 

Or that’s what you keep telling yourself.

 

2D sniffs and rubs his eyes, trying to hide his tears. “B-but Murdoc!” he protests. “I want it to mean something.”

 

For a split second you consider turning around and running into his arms like a scene from a cliche romance movie. Letting him kiss you and hold you and knowing that it’s what both of you want.

 

But then your heart twists in on itself, and you hear your father’s voice whispering in your mind, _You’re Murdoc Niccals and you’re incapable of being loved. You simply don’t deserve it_. And you try so desperately to push it away and make what happened last night mean something but of course you fall prey to your own fears again.

 

And so you glare at 2D and snarl, “Faceache, let me make myself clear seein’ that you’re still thinkin’ this is gonna end up like one of your idyllic fantasies. What happened last night was a one-time thing. We had our chance to shag and you fuckin’ ruined it. It’ll never happen again. Ever.”

 

2D just stands there, silent tears tracking down his cheeks, and shakily asks, “What does ‘idyllic’ mean?”

 

You slap him across the face forcefully. “It means all happy and unrealistic and shit. Complete utter bollocks. As in, ‘stop living in an idyllic dreamworld where last night meant somethin’, because in real life it never will’.”

 

“Oh,” he responds softly, sniffling pathetically. “M’sorry.”

 

“You should be,” you snap. “Now sod off. If I see your stupid face again today I’ll put a third dent in your head.”

 

He frantically scurries away, still crying. You watch his scrawny form race up the steps and turn a corner until you couldn’t see him any longer.

 

You turn away and numbly walk back outside to the Winnebago. You don’t allow yourself to cry. Besides, there is nothing to cry about. Why would you be upset? This is all for your own good.

 

It’s all for your own good.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hoooohohoo it’s getting angsty up in this house. sorry for the wait, ive been working on two other writing projects for a class and so ive been focused mainly on that. ill try to update more periodically after i finish my other work.
> 
> thank you guys so much for all the support! love y’all so much <3


	16. The Reflections on The Past (Year’s Success)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aaaaaah it’s been a month since ive put out a chapter and im so sorry!!! ive just had writers block and lots of school stuff. 
> 
> anyways, this chapter has a few mentions and descriptions of murdoc’s childhood (child abuse and implied rape). proceed at your own comfort level.
> 
> pm me on tumblr for a more toned down version

Your name is Murdoc Niccals, and you are positively basking in fame.

A year had passed and within that year, you had released your first album, won multiple awards, gone on a world tour, and begun ideas for a movie.

A year had passed, and within that year, you were able to suppress those feelings for 2D that were so very close to surfacing. You blotted out your heart in sex and alcohol. Sex to get rid of your frustration, and alcohol so you wouldn’t regret a thing. And you told yourself that he didn’t matter. That he was nothing but a burden. You whispered it softly as you lay alone in bed like a child reciting bedtime prayers. Except your words weren’t a prayer to any sort of god. It was a prayer to yourself.

Tonight, you’re on the road to your new home in Los Angeles. You’re eager to begin filming a new Gorillaz movie that will make you even more famous then before. You’re already a star, but a movie could turn you into a legend. Someone that nobody will ever forget. But first, you have to make it through the night.

Nights like these are often very quiet, with only the sounds of the engine humming and Russel snoring loudly. You like to sit by the window and watch the cars pass by under the orange pools of light from the streetlamps. You find it quite relaxing.

Nights like these make you think. And so tonight, you reflect back on your world tour.

You remember being up on stage, sweating and playing your bass loudly and passionately.

_You remember being up on stage, trembling in yet another stupid outfit as your father condescendingly watched from the audience._

You remember having so many people crowd around you as you established a cult of personality where people viewed you as their god.

_You remember having so many people crowd around you as you sunk onto the floor and sobbed because you had forgotten the words to the song._

You remember him, that goddamn midget, the one who had auditioned for your band a long time ago.

_You remember him, your father, slamming his beer bottle against your head and you wailed as the glass shredded your skin._

You remember lips on yours before you pushed him away and he gave some hilariously stupid speech about how “you’ll rue the day you messed with Little Jimmy Manson”.

_ You remember lips on yours, that dinner lady’s, her holding you against her body and you were so fucking small and you wanted to run run runrunrunrun _

Overwhelmed, you slam your fist against the window. The glass cracks a bit and your knuckles painfully bleed.

“That’s fucking enough,” you snarl to the voices in your head. “No more.”

You finish the bottle of rum you were drinking and stretch out along one of the couches. You glance around to try to find something you can do to occupy the rest of tonight without the voices in your head interjecting your thoughts with negativity.

You decide to check if everyone else is asleep. Tiptoeing around the tour bus, you peek into the tiny rooms to make sure you (and the driver of course) are the only ones awake. You glance at producers and security guards, wrapped in tranquil sleep.

Shuffling past, you look into the private rooms in the back of the bus. Noodle is curled up asleep in her bed, a gentle smile on her face. You can’t help but grin a bit at her peaceful state. You then turn to Russel’s room, where he’s sprawled across the bed, rhythmically snoring with an open mouth.

And then you peer into 2D’s room, and freeze.

He’s probably having a nightmare of some sort, seeing that he’s thrashing about and crying rather loudly. A sharp pang of pity slices through your heart. Reassuring yourself that he won’t wake up, you slip over to him and place your hand on his back. He lets out a frightened whimper and so you soothingly rub his shoulders, assuring him silently that you’re not there to harm him.

“It’s alright, faceache,” you whisper gruffly. “Quit your cryin’ and go on off to sleep.”

“Murdoc?” he murmurs. You freeze. “Is that you?”

You don’t say anything.

“Why are you here?” whispers 2D.

Sighing, you say, “Y’were havin’ a nightmare and I wanted you to shut up.”

He blinks. “Thanks, Murdoc,” he yawns. “Well, I guess you should be goin’ now. You need sleep too.”

“Can I stay?” The words are out of your mouth before you can stop them.

2D looks surprised. “Alright,” he replies confusedly.

You shuffle into bed next to him, and press your head against his chest. He gingerly wraps his arms around you, pulling you closer to him.

“Why do you want to stay?” he asks softly. “Were you havin’ a nightmare too?”

“Not exactly,” you respond. “Just some thoughts that turned dark.”

His fingers begin to trace patterns along your back. “What were you thinkin’ about?”

You tense up, your breath catching and your body going rigid.

He squeezes your shoulder reassuringly. “It’s alright, you can tell me. I won’t judge.”

Taking a deep breath, you try desperately to put on an air of nonchalant. “I was thinkin’ about our tour.”

“Alright,” 2D responds. “That’s not too bad, ain’t it?”

“That wasn’t all I was thinkin’ about.” Maybe it’s the alcohol you previously drank starting to get to your head, but you find yourself carrying on. “I was thinkin’ about when I was a kid.”

Intrigued, he says, “Go on.”

You close your eyes tightly. “My father.”

“What was he like?” 2D inquires.

“He was...not a very pleasant man. I’m not goin’ into any further details,” you answer stiffly.

“And your mum?”

You don’t respond, just glare at him.

“Oh,” he says. “M’sorry, Murdoc.”

“S’fine,” you reply. “Never knew her. My dad found me on the doorstep.”

2D hugs you gently, and you relax into his touch.

“Dullard?” you ask.

“Yeah?”

“I’m kinda hungry. D’ya want anything to eat?” You shimmy out of his grasp and trudge towards the door.

“Strawberries would be nice,” he states.

You nod and shuffle out and into the kitchen area of the tour bus. Opening the fridge, you grab the carton of strawberries as well as a second bottle of rum for you. With refreshments in tow, you plod back to 2D’s private room.

“That was quick,” he announces. You just shrug and climb back into bed, offering him a strawberry. He eagerly eats it and places the carton between the two of you.

You take a swig of your rum. “Faceache, when was the first time you shagged a bird?”

Shocked, he chokes a bit on a strawberry and begins coughing. “I w-was sixteen. How ‘bout you?”

“I was nine.” You close your eyes again, trying to block out the memories and chase them away with the rum.

“What?” he sputters, appalled.

“I didn’t want to do it.” Your voice cracks and you find tears tracking down your face.

“Oh, Murdoc.” He hugs you, holding you protectively against his body. “I’m so fuckin’ sorry. You didn’t deserve that.”

You stay like that, crying in his arms for a while, occasionally inching away to grab a strawberry or some rum.

Soon, 2D falls asleep beside you. You down the rest of the rum. The room begins to spin and you slowly start to drift towards slumber as well. But there’s something you need to do first.

“Oi, dullard!” you slur.

He glances at you, blinking sleepily. “Yeah, Murdoc? Y’need somethin’?”

“You’re not like all the other girls,” you murmur drunkenly. “Here’s my number.” You rip the label off of your bottle of rum and messily scrawl your phone number on it, placing it into his hand. “Call me,” you whisper, grinning.

2D looks confused. “But I’m not...oh, never mind.” Sighing, he kisses your cheek and closes his eyes once again. As you lay in bed next to him and slowly fall asleep, one clear thought echoes through your mind’s drunken haze.

The thought that a year had passed and within that year, you had released your first album, won multiple awards, gone on a world tour, and begun ideas for a movie.

That a year had passed, and within that year, you were able to suppress those feelings for 2D that were so very close to surfacing. Those feelings that only dared to show when you were drunk.

In the morning, you’d hit him for holding you like a lover. That’d teach him.

You fell asleep that night without the nightmares that you usually had. Your bad dreams were shielded by 2D’s sleeping form curled around yours.

Instead, you had different nightmares. But the difference was that with these, they weren’t visions of the past. They were visions of the future.

And they were the happiest nightmares you’d ever had.


	17. The Reason Why You Should Never Do Anything Illegal

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i am so terribly sorry for the wait! i’ve been extremely busy with school and other issues. anyways, i absolutely adore this chapter, and i hope you do too. 
> 
> happy belated new year!
> 
> xoxo  
> mouse
> 
> follow me on tumblr @a-nonnie-mouse

Your name is Murdoc Niccals, and you really don’t recommend the prison experience to anyone. Because it does shit to you that fucks you up for life.

 

You honestly don’t think you should be in prison. You didn’t really do anything wrong. So what if you made out fake checks to prostitutes in Tijuana? It wasn’t your fault at all. You had just simply lost your checkbook so you decided to make your own. Everyone loves DIY bullshit. Everyone, apparently, except the Mexican authorities.

 

You had ended up in Tijuana about a year and a half after your very first tour. You and the rest of the band had relocated to Los Angeles so you could carry out your plan to make a Gorillaz movie. Unfortunately, your plan failed. And you got pissed. Real pissed. Pissed enough to throttle poor 2D into oblivion. You probably would’ve killed him had Russel not pulled the two of you apart. And the most terrifying part was that you felt no remorse. The annoying dullard deserved it.

 

After that incident Russel declared that it would be best for the band to spend some time apart. He told you that he was sick of the fighting and maybe a temporary break would create a peace between everyone. You agreed wholeheartedly. Anywhere would be great as long as Faceache wasn’t there to get on your nerves. And so everyone had packed their bags and went their own separate ways.

 

You hadn’t heard from Russel or 2D since you left, but a few weeks before you were thrown in jail, you received a postcard from Noodle where she eagerly declared that she was in Japan on an exciting journey of self-rediscovery. Her English seemed to have drastically improved since you had last been with her, seeing that then all she could really say were short choppy sentences and now she was writing postcards with large words like “bildungsroman”. Good for her, you had thought. It was nice to hear that Noodle was enjoying herself.

 

You too had been enjoying yourself, but in a different way. While Noodle was having fun reconnecting with her past in Japan, you had been having the time of your life in a Tijuana brothel acquiring a multitude of STDs from the record-breaking amount of prostitutes you had fucked.

 

It was quite a lovely time. You were perfectly content to stay there for the rest of your life. You were even actually considering to form a new band (one made up of entirely non-idiots) down in Tijuana just so you could continue to enjoy yourself. But of course, like all good things, the fun ended after you were discovered, promptly arrested, and thrown in prison.

 

You had surprisingly never been in prison before, despite the amount of criminal activity you had partaken in. Apparently illegal drug use, stealing, running over a teenager with your car and adultnapping were fine, but somehow making fake checks out and giving them to prostitutes wasn’t. Like you had mentioned quite earlier, the legal system was absolute bollocks.

 

So you were sentenced to 30 years in prison. But you had thought nothing of it, really. Sure, it was unjust and all that, but you were _Murdoc fucking Niccals._  You automatically assumed because of that fact, you’d receive special treatment like all the stars do in prison. You thought you’d get better meals and more phone calls and the guards would pretty much be your personal bodyguards.

 

But as most people know about assuming, _assuming_ makes an ASS out of U and ME. And your assumptions led you to have extremely false hopes when you entered prison for the first time. False hopes that you’d be treated like royalty.

 

But in prison, you don’t get good treatment by being famous. Many of the prisoners there had been in prison so long that they hadn’t even heard of you. In prison, you gain respect and privileges by being strong and fearsome. And someone of your size and stature is neither strong or fearsome. So no matter how much you whine about how you’re the one and only Murdoc Niccals from Gorillaz, and no matter how much you scream and kick and bite when a few of the prisoners take a certain _liking_ to you, the guards are completely indifferent to you. They don’t give two shits that you make more money than all of them combined. In their minds, you all are the same.

 

So now, almost a month after you arrived, you are still stuck in prison, with a sore arse and a bruised ego. You lean back onto your lumpy prison cot with a sigh. Something crunches underneath you, and you quickly sit back up and turn to look at what you had just squished. A cracker lies on the cot in crumbly pieces, and the corners of your mouth turn up in a tiny smile.

 

Earlier in the month you had managed to befriend Cortez, a raven who happened to live in the prison, after rescuing him from a rather deranged prisoner who you believe planned on eating him. He had seemed a bit dazed and frightened after the ordeal, so you had sat on your cot for hours just stroking the feathers on his head gently until he calmed down. Realizing he was indebted to you, he had begun bringing you little trinkets and snacks and would leave them on your cot for you. Occasionally he would visit while you were present, and during those times he would perch on your shoulder and snuggle into the crook of your neck adoringly, as if he knew how desperate you were for just one ally while you were in prison.

 

The blaring alarm signifying that it was time for supper shook you from your thoughts. You get to your feet and let the guards open your cell and escort you to the cafeteria. You always quickly take whatever lumpy food they were serving and hide in the shadowy corners hoping nobody would ambush you while you ate. You never strutted around with the same confidence like in the beginning. That led to a lot of unfortunate incidents.

 

You take a bite out of the weird red ooze on your plate and grimace. Whatever it is, it certainly isn’t chili. It tastes like a horse took a shit and someone drenched that shit in barbecue sauce and tried to cook it in one of those Easy Bake ovens. But you force yourself to take another bite because it’s the only food you get aside from the occasional berries and bread from Cortez. And that’s when you hear the voice from next to you. “I wouldn’t eat that, _señor_.”

 

You jump and the platter of deep-fried horse shit goes flying and splatters all over the floor. Lightning fast, you press yourself against the wall and set your feet in case you need to run. The voice laughs. “Don’t worry, _señor_ , I’m not looking for any trouble, I promise. But I know what you may be looking for.”

 

“Oh really?” you snarl, defensive. “And what the fuck might that be?”  

 

A second voice hisses, “You want freedom and protection. You might have a big ego but you’re still small and weak, and you know it. You’re not dumb. You know what you need.” The voice chuckles. “We can help you, you know. Help you get back to the band you’ve talked about.”

 

You tentatively get to your feet, an eyebrow raised. “What’s in it for you? I know you’re not just gonna do out of the ‘good of your heart’ and shit.”

 

“Freedom for us, _señor_ ,” replies the first voice. “We want out too.”

 

“But I don’t even know you,” you combat. “How do I know I can trust you?”

 

The owners of the voices shuffle into the harsh prison light. One of them is large and hunchbacked, with rather small ears and an unfortunate hair situation. The other is tall and thin, with a number of tattoos creeping out of his prison jumpsuit and winding around his arms and neck. “I’m Ears,” said the larger one. “And this _pendejo_ is Three-Faced.”

 

“Those aren’t your actual names, are they?” you ask although you already know the answer. “Because that would just be unfortunate.”

 

Three-Faced snickers. “My real name’s Carlos, but my girlfriend calls me Lo-lo. Also sometimes she calls me stupid and it’s not nice _._ Also my mom calls me-” He quickly shuts up with a slap to the face from Ears.

 

“Shut up,” Ears snarls. “Nobody cares.” Three-Faced winces and rubs his sore cheek, a bit hurt. The action seems to remind you of something, but you don’t remember what. Whatever it is, it’s probably unimportant anyways.

 

“You want to know if you can trust us?” Ears then says. “Here’s the deal, _señor_. We offer you protection and break out of this place with you, and then when you get back to your cute little band, you pay us.”

 

You rock back on your heels, thinking. “How much are you talkin’ about?”

 

“I dunno,” Three-Faced begins. “Maybe, um, ten thou-” Ears slaps a meaty hand over his mouth. He continues to mumble against Ears’s fingers but eventually gives up.

 

“Five hundred thousand in US dollars,” Ears states. “Paper cash. No checks, _señor_. Especially because you seem to have a thing for faking them.”

 

“It’s ironic because you’ve got so much money yet you still fake the checks,” says Three-Faced, beaming. “Isn’t it funny? Do you find it funny, Ears?” He looks eagerly up at Ears, whose stony glare assures the other that he did not happen to find humor in your situation. “Huh,” Three-Faced mumbles. “Guess not.”

 

You purse your lips, and wonder if it is worth it. Five hundred grand in US dollars is a lot of money. But you were in fucking Gorillaz. You guys completely obliterated the charts, made four successful music videos, went on a world tour, and almost had a movie made. You could afford it.

 

“It’s a deal,” you declare, and stick your hand out to seal the deal with a handshake. Ears grips your hand tightly with a bone-crushing grasp and shakes it rather aggressively. Three-Faced, ever following behind Ears like an adoring puppy, waits until Ears is finished and then shakes your hand a bit more calmly and almost nervously.

 

Ears grins a grin that would probably cause panic attacks in anxiety-prone individuals. “We’ll see you around, _señor,”_  he purrs, and the pair sinks back into the shadowed corners of the cafeteria.

 

You return to your cell and flop back onto the bumpy cot, preparing to go to sleep. This time however you check for any Cortez gifts beforehand. There are no new gifts this time; the only things on your cot being the scratchy blanket and the crumbled up cracker from earlier. You eat the cracker. It’s rather stale, but it’s still food, and that’s what matters most. All you have to do is just survive long enough to break out, and then you’ll be free from all of this prison bullshit.

 

But surviving is so fucking hard, and no matter how many times you convince yourself that you’re Murdoc Niccals and that you’re perfect and invincible and everyone loves you, it still stays equally as difficult. Because deep down inside, you know that just like Three-Faced said, you’re still small and weak, and the weak don’t survive a place like Mexican prison.

 

You remember one time as a child, you and your brother Hannibal were lying in bed at night kept awake by the sounds of your father drunkenly stomping around downstairs, when Hannibal had said that he believed that it was all of your father’s time in prison that sucked all the love out of him. Back then, you had scoffed and retorted that he had just always been bad.

 

But now you’re starting to understand Hannibal’s reasoning. To survive in prison, one had to be strong both mentally and physically. One had to be apathetic and tough, with no desire for alliances or bonds of any sort. And all of those things were something you were not.

 

So you close your eyes, pull the blanket over you, and as you sink into slumber, your heart twists and all of the empathy and love within you seeps out of you and puddles onto the cement floor, where it drips between the cracks until there is simply none left at all.


	18. The Preparations Necessary For Breaking Out Of Prison

Your name is Murdoc Niccals, and you are almost about to break out of prison. It’s a bit daunting, now that you think about it, but you aren’t afraid. In fact, you’re excited. All you want more than anything is to be somewhere where you can be free.

 

The plan to break out was designed a few months ago. It had been two weeks after you had last spoken to Ears and Three-Faced. Nothing had really changed, except that you were left alone for once and not used for questionable purposes, and you also managed to take a course on pharmaceutical medicines and surprisingly passed the final exam.

 

Additionally you kept on receiving little edible gifts from Cortez, who you noticed everyone seemed to be rather unsettled by. Many of the other prisoners claimed that the raven had emerged from the cloak of Death himself. You didn’t believe it. They were probably just trying to conceal a weird bird phobia.

 

You also happened to receive another postcard from Noodle. She claimed to be having a rather eye-opening experience, saying she’d tell you everything when you returned home. You hated to admit it but you were rather touched by her sending you mail. At least _someone_ seemed to care about you. Russel was most likely somewhere warm having fun with friends outside the band and 2D was probably so stupid that he forgot you existed and was out there getting fifteen girlfriends. That kid went through women so fast you could barely keep track of who he was casually shagging or who he was “dating” because it often changed weekly. You rarely thought of 2D. Thinking of him made you frustrated and angry, and carrying around anger in prison was dangerous. Because one never knows what might piss them off to the breaking point and before they know it, there’ll be blood on their knuckles and a body on the ground and 2 years in solitary. And that was something you certainly didn’t want, for it would only hinder your journey to escaping prison.

 

Your idea for escaping was rather ingenious, you had to admit. All you needed to do was get your hands on a few materials and you were good to go. But you were still rather new to the place and didn’t exactly know where to find a voice recorder or ingredients for a paper-mache solution. So one day during dinner, you decided to step out of the corners you usually hid in during mealtime and scour the crowded sea of orange jumpsuits to find Ears and Three-Faced. They seemed to know the prison like the backs of their hands.

 

You had walked around rather cautiously, remembering what had happened the _last_ time you had strutted about the cafeteria. After that incident, you had taken to crouching in the corners (seeing that you weren’t able to sit for a few days afterwards) and hoping that nobody knew you were there. Unfortunately, due to your small stature, you had been unable to spot your two allies and so you dejectedly began to head towards the corner once more when a meaty hand rested on your shoulder. “Searching for something, _señor_?”

 

Anxiously you whipped around to face the familiar hunchbacked figure of Ears, with Three-Faced peeking out from behind him. You had let out a sigh of relief. “Thought y’were someone else for a second,” you said. “Gave me quite a scare.”

Ears chuckled softly. “Haven’t seen you for a while, _señor_. What have you been up to? Nobody’s given you any trouble, have they?”

 

“No,” you had answered. “I was lookin’ for you, actually. I’ve got a brilliant idea about how to escape.”

 

Three-Faced bounced on his toes excitedly, which prompted Ears to punch his shoulder in a manner that did not seem to be friendly. “What’s your idea?” he asked, rubbing his sore shoulder and flashing a dirty look at Ears.

 

“Alright,” you began, an eager smile on your face. “So I was thinkin’ I could make a paper-mache me and record a tape of me moanin’ or some shit and play it on repeat. And they’d think I was, y’know, _relievin’ some stress_ , and then we could break out.”

 

Ears stayed quiet for a second. “ _Señor_ , that might actually work. Fame hasn’t made you stupid after all.” He paused as the alarm blared again signaling that it was time to return back to the cells. “In fact, I know where to find some of the materials you need. I’ll go find them for you during shower time and this _vato_ can stay here with you.” He elbowed Three-Faced in the ribs. “I’ll deliver them to you by tomorrow, got it, _señor_?”

 

You nodded, trying to contain your excitement. “Got it,” you responded, watching Ears shuffle away with Three-Faced happily loping close behind him, ever the loyal sycophant. For once, as you left the cafeteria, a smile was plastered across your face instead of the traditional sour frown.

 

“What’re you smiling at, Niccals?” bellowed one of the guards, slamming and locking your cell door after you entered it.

 

“Oh, nothin’,” you had replied, your smile widening as you noticed an entire slice of bread on your bed - a gift from Cortez. You quickly devoured the bread and then noticed Cortez himself perched near the window, so you walked over to him and gently pet his head. “Thanks,” you murmured. You were never one for pets but Cortez had somehow wormed his way into your heart. You would desperately miss him when you left. Unless…

 

“Cortez,” you hissed quietly. His response was a loud squawk that sounded like a fire alarm in a library at 5 in the morning. “Quiet the fuck down,” you had snapped, covering his beak with your hand and prompting him to angrily peck you. “D’ya want to get out of this place? You could see the world or somethin’ and not be stuck in here for the rest of your days.” He tilted his head and stared at you with beady black eyes, replying with a softer caw. “I’m takin’ that as a yes,” you declared. “It’d be nice havin’ you around at home. Noodle would probably like you. She likes all animals.”

 

Cortez had then promptly made a noise that sounded like a cat being throttled and regurgitated a small chunk of hamburger onto your scratchy blanket. “You’re nasty,” you said rather affectionately, stroking his head. “I love it.”

 

That day, you had eagerly paced about your cell until your feet hurt, waiting until the familiar alarm blared again signifying that it was time to shower. The guards stood watchfully as you exited your cell and for the first time since you had arrived here, you went to go shower.

 

The showers always made you uncomfortable, which was the reason why you never showered. You weren’t one for personal hygiene in the first place; you rarely showered at home, and you certainly weren’t going to start showering in a public area with a bunch of men who were much larger and stronger than you. You had had enough...incidents since you got here and you would rather not have any more happen.

 

So you left your prison jumpsuit on and stood underneath one of the shower heads, wincing as the cold water hit your skin and soaked your clothing. It was quite uncomfortable showering fully clothed but it was better than being naked in front of all of these people.

 

A voice had then snapped you out of your thoughts. “Most people shower naked, you know.” You turned to see Three-Faced leaning against the wall, waiting for a turn in the shower.

 

“I know that, idiot,” you snapped, shivering under the icy and relatively unclean stream of shower water.

 

He grinned. “Then why are you wearing clothes? You’re the _idiota_ , not me.”

 

You scowled, and snarled “It’s none of your fuckin’ business.”

 

“Alright, alright!” Three-Faced backed up a bit. “No need to be hostile. I already get enough of that with Ears.” He chuckled at his own joke.

 

You didn’t respond. You just turned off the shower water and grabbed a towel to futilely attempt to dry yourself. Three-Faced eagerly claimed your shower and unzipped his prison jumpsuit, kicking the orange garment into a corner so it wouldn’t get wet. You couldn’t help but stare at the multitude of tattoos snaking up his back and creeping around his arms.

 

“Where’d you get those tattoos?” you asked.

 

Turning on the shower water, Three-Faced let out a tiny squeak as the cold water hit him, and then answered, “Some of ‘em I got when I was home and some Ears did ‘em for me. He has a bunch of ‘em that I did for him in return.”

 

“You can do tattoos?” You had always wanted a tattoo when you were a teenager, but the tattoo parlors in Stoke-on-Trent looked as if they would give their patrons a variety of diseases and you had just never bothered to go get a tattoo once you moved out.

 

“Of course!” He turned off the shower water and toweled off. “Do you want one? I can do one for you. Don’t tell Ears, but I’m better than him at tattoos.”

 

You nodded. “Yeah, you can do one for me.”

 

“Okay!” he chirped. “You can come to my and Ears’s cell to do it. I have the supplies there and the guards won’t notice. They’re too busy trying to monitor the showers to make sure nothing bad happens in there.”

 

The two of you had walked in silence to the cell. You tried not to notice how you had to walk rather briskly to keep up with Three-Faced’s long stride just like you did when you walked side by side with...no. You were not going to start thinking about _him_. He was worthless to you. All he was to you was just another pretty face.

 

Three-Faced coughed awkwardly to alert you that you had arrived. “Here,” he said slowly. “You think of what you want for your tattoo and I’ll get the materials.” He bent down underneath one of the beds and began rummaging for something.

 

You sat down onto the other bed in the cell and thought for a bit. When Three-Faced emerged again, with a handful of pens and a few needles, you gruffly said, “I think I’d like the seven deadly sins. Like, across my back, y’know?”

 

“I can do that,” he replied. “Just, um, unzip your jumpsuit to your waist and then just take off the top part. Leave the pants part on.” You quickly complied and he unscrewed one of the pens, breaking the ink capsule and emptying the ink into a plastic cup he had stolen from the cafeteria. “This’ll hurt, you know,” he said, wiping one of the needles on his jumpsuit and dipping it in the ink. “It’ll take a while and be pretty painful.”

 

“I’m aware,” you replied, flipping yourself onto your stomach so he could reach your back. You buried your face into the lumpy pillow, screwing your eyes tightly shut.

 

The first pinpricks of pain blossomed across your back as he began. You were very aware of his calloused yet gentle hands on your exposed skin, guiding the needle along with a precision you didn’t know he possessed. He started to softly hum a tune as he worked, something beautiful and mellifluous that you didn’t recognize. You gritted your teeth against the pain, afraid that if you hissed out a swear or moved a single muscle then you’d mess it all up.

 

“Why the seven deadly sins?” Three-Faced had inquired.

 

“Because,” you responded, your voice muffled against the pillow. “It looks fuckin’ wicked, that’s why.”

 

Three-Faced snickered. “Good reason, I guess.” He continued to work on your tattoo, his cold fingers steadying himself and wiping away ink smudges.

 

You are achingly reminded of someone you wish you never met.

 

“Murdoc?” he then asked. “You’re shaking.”

 

“M’not,” you countered, feeling your breath hitch.

 

Three-Faced stepped back from you and wiped his hands on his jumpsuit. “Is the pain too much? I’m almost finished. We’ve only got a little bit left to go, it’s gonna be okay.”

 

“M’fine,” you muttered, concentrating deeply on trying not to cry. You were infuriated how just one little thought of 2D was enough to bring you near tears. When you got home, you’d beat the shit out of the kid. Just to prove to yourself that he was nothing to you.

 

“If you say so,” Three-Faced replied uneasily and you felt the needle poke back into your skin with a sharp pinch. A silence hung over the two of you until he finally finished your tattoo, and bandaged it up to prevent smearing. “Next time you’re by a mirror, turn around so you can see it.” he said, taking the supplies and carefully sliding them underneath the other bed.

 

You gingerly zipped your jumpsuit back up and then settled onto the bed. Three-Faced took a seat next to you. “Are you alright?” he asked. You met his worried stare and suddenly in your mind, brown eyes turned black and dark hair turned blue and everything was just too much _too much two much two dee where are you i think i might be missin you a whole fuckin lot_

 

“I’m fine,” you had growled, and shoved him roughly. He looked up at you from the ground, confused. “I’m goin’ back to my cell now.” You stormed out rather ungratefully and ran down the twisting and turning hallways, running until you reached your cell, where you angrily threw yourself onto your bed, crushing a pile of berries from Cortez.

 

“What are you running from, _señor_?” came Ears’s voice. Great. Just your luck that another person came along during one of your rare moments of weakness.

 

“Myself,” you muttered, wrapping the itchy blankets around your soggy and pathetic self.

Ears chuckled. “You’re nothing to be afraid of, _señor_. There’s people here who are terrifying, who have done terrible crimes. If you see them then you should run in the other direction. But you? You are not scary. You do not need to fear yourself.”

 

“Why are y’even here?” You glared up at him, feeling very small in comparison to him.

 

“I came to tell you I have gathered everything you need to break out, _señor_ ,” Ears stated. “We set up tomorrow at dawn, and then we put our plan in action, and get the fuck out of here.” He paused. “So there is no need to be upset. It is your last night here. You should be happy.”

 

You forced a grin. “I am happy,” you said, even though you and he both knew you were lying.

 

“Well then, _señor_ , you should celebrate,” he responded. “Unfortunately I must go back to my cell and I cannot celebrate with you. I expect to see you tomorrow at dawn.” And with that, he left just as suddenly as he arrived.

 

And now here you are, lying back on your bed and staring at the tiny sliver of evening sky you can see through your window. You didn’t entirely lie to Ears. You were happy to be able to return to the studios and start making a new album like Noodle had talked about in the postcard she had sent you.

 

But you were also not ready to return home to face _him_. To see that stupid smile on his face and hear his annoying voice and feel his arms around you holding you oh so tightly. Because if the kid kept playing his stupid games with you and toying with your emotions in ways you didn’t like, you’d probably kill him.

 

And you really didn’t want to go back to prison for murder. That would just defeat the purpose of breaking out in the first place.

 

You may be Murdoc Niccals, lawbreaker extraordinaire, but you’re not a murderer.

 

You’re not a murderer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> peep the foreshadowing ;)
> 
> im so sorry this chapter got really angsty and i didn’t intend for it to be this way
> 
> love you fuckers  
> \- möuśê


	19. The Breakout and The Reunion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the lateness!!! i made this chapter extra long to compensate for it, lol. hope you enjoy the chapter <3
> 
> xoxo,  
> mouse :)

Your name is Murdoc Niccals, and you have broken out of jail.

 

The paper-mache you had been placed in its proper location, the moaning had been recorded, and you (with Cortez uncomfortably pressed against you), Ears, and Three-Faced had crawled through the overhead vents of the prison. It was a rather tight squeeze but it was all worth it knowing that if your plan works, you’d be out in less than five minutes.

 

You felt Three-Faced’s skinny elbow accidentally dig into your ribs and you gave him a rough shove. “Watch it,” you snarled.

 

“Sorry,” he answered, worming his way past you. “I’m just so excited to get out of here!”

 

“What were you two even in for in the first place?” you asked, keeping your voice low so that no guards who might happen to be standing underneath the vents could hear you.

 

Ears looked at Three-Faced. “I tried to smuggle cocaine up this _pendejo’s_ ass across the border. It would have worked had he not announced to the whole world that he had ‘a secret in his anus’.”

 

“I thought it would be funny,” Three-Faced replied sourly. “I didn’t realize the local police were used to people putting drugs up their ass. I didn’t think they’d search me.” He sighed. “And I never even told my girlfriend where I was. What if she’s moved on without me?” Tears formed in his eyes. “What am I gonna do if she’s gone?”

 

“You’ll find some other expendable bird,” you responded. “If she leaves you she ain’t worth your time.” At the mention of the word _bird_ you felt Cortez wriggle about from where he was pressed against your chest underneath your prison jumpsuit. “Not you, fuckface,” you murmured to him. “I meant _bird_ as in girl.” Annoyed, he pecked at you gently and settled back down.

 

“Look, _señor_!” Ears pointed to where thin slits of light are shining in from the end of the vent. “All you need to do is pull the vent cover off and we’ll be out of here.”

 

You quickened your pace and soon you found your hands pressed against the slats of the vent, fresh air wafting onto you. You dug your nails underneath the sides of the vent, trying to remove the cover. After a few attempts (and a few broken fingernails), the vent cover snapped off and fell onto the dusty alleyway behind the prison with a thud. You eagerly followed suit, jumping down onto the dirt road and standing back as your companions squeezed out of the overhead vents and joined you on solid ground.

 

“We’re free,” breathed Three-Faced from behind you.

 

“That’s motherfuckin’ right!” you yelled excitedly, aiming a kick towards one of the prison garbage cans and knocking it over. “Murdoc Niccals is back, baby!”

 

“ _Señor_ , calm down,” Ears said sternly. “You’re forgetting we still need to leave Mexico. We’d better find a safe place to stay for now in case the prison guards realize what we did.” So the three of you quickly clambered up the tall fence surrounding the prison, Three-Faced painfully holding up part of the barbed wire so you and Ears could climb over safely.

 

The next few hours were a blur to you, just trekking into the city and you standing about awkwardly in a random house with Three-Faced and Ears as they met up with some of their friends and fellow members of the drug cartel they were involved in. You were introduced to person after person, and by the ninth one you met, the faces of everyone seem to smudge together and instead of concentrating on matching names to faces, you just paid attention to the way your palms sweat harder every time another nameless individual shakes your hand.

 

Ears eventually seemed to notice your uncomfortableness and whisked you away from the conversation and allowed you to clean yourself up and change into the old outfit you wore the day you got arrested (which Ears had managed to retrieve for you earlier before you escaped). The feel of your lovingly worn gray shirt and jeans against your skin was a comforting feeling you never realized how much you missed. But you were most excited to be reunited with your upside-down cross pendant, which you had gotten years ago from the big man down below himself. Ever since that fateful meeting you had worn it proudly and hadn’t taken it off until you were sent to jail and all your belongings were “confiscated”.

 

“Are you decent?” Three-Faced’s voice snapped you out of your thoughts. “Because I have something to give to you. A gift to thank you for the idea for the escape plan and the money you’ll give us once you go back home home.”

 

You rummaged into the pocket of your jeans to find a piece of gum, and you fed it to Cortez, who began choking on it a bit. “Yeah, I’m all good. What d’ya need?”

 

Three-Faced shuffled into the room, holding a box. “This is for you.” You removed the lid of the box to reveal a beautiful purple velvet cape.

 

“Where the hell did y’get this?” you said, awestruck. You pulled the cape around your shoulders, fastening it with the skull-shaped clip that came in the box alongside it. “It’s lovely.”

 

“I’m glad you liked it,” he replied. “One of my friends gave it to me as a ‘welcome-back-from-jail’ gift but it’s too edgy for me. I think it suits you much more. After all, you’re the one with the seven deadly sins tattoo.”

 

“All thanks to you.” You experimentally twirled about, focusing on your reflection in the full length mirror attached to the wall. You made sure to look only at the cape and not your face. You hated looking at yourself. It reminded you too much of everything you weren’t.

 

Three-Faced chuckled, hooking his thumbs through his belt loops. “Yup, all thanks to me.” He edged closer tentatively and soon you found your gaze locked with his. You leaned closer, close enough to kiss him, but he turned his face away, flashing you a slightly disgusted look.

 

“Why?” you asked, drawing your cape around your body.

 

“Just...no. I can’t. I’ve got a girlfriend. Catrina. I could never do that to her.” He sighed. “Also, I don’t really...y’know...lean that way.”

 

“Oh,” you murmured, a bit dejectedly.

 

He offered another grin, but this time it seemed more pitying than genuine. Rage begun to bubble up within you. You were Murdoc fucking Niccals. You didn’t need anyone’s pity. “Besides,” he said. “I think that you’re only looking for this because I remind you of someone. You shouldn’t do that. You can’t use people like that.”

 

“Use people?” you spat. “You talk about not usin’ people and you let Ears walk all over you. You’re contradictin’ yourself. You tell me usin’ people ain’t right and you let yourself get used by everyone. That’s absolute bollocks and you and I both know it.”

 

“Murdoc, you’re acting like a baby.” He frowned. “If you want to go and throw a tantrum, why don’t you just leave? Go on back to the brothel you were arrested in. It’s right down the block. There’s a phone in there you can use to contact your family. I’ll give you our address so you can send the money you owe us for our assistance over here.”

 

“Fine,” you snarled. “Guess I’ll leave.” And with that, you stormed away from the only people who seemed to care about you, Cortez angrily flapping alongside you, and you stomped down the street, back to the dim lighting of the brothel you had been so accustomed to.

 

“Is that Murdoc?” chirped a rather drunk woman (you were pretty sure she was named Trixie) from where she lounged across the front desk. “Thought you was locked up for fake checks. I didn’t mind that I didn’t get paid though. It was worth it.”

 

“I was, luv,” you purred, walking up to her and planting a kiss upon her forehead. “Broke the fuck out of there. Nothing can contain Murdoc Niccals.”

 

“Speakin’ of _contain_ , Mudsie, can I get ya out of all of them clothes containin’ ya?” She smirked, crawling over the desk and running her hands down your chest. “I could let ya use the switchblade on me again. I know how much you like it.”

 

“Unfortunately not today, peach. I need to borrow a phone.” You removed both her hands from you, and patted your shoulder to let Cortez know he could perch there.

 

She pouted and sat back onto the desk, grabbing her cell phone and handing it to you. “Who are ya callin’?”

 

“No one important,” you answered, and dialed up the house number of Kong Studios.

 

You had forgotten the time zone difference and so the call was picked up by Noodle, who was rather tired from being woken up at 2:30 in the morning. “Yeah?” she said sleepily.

 

“It’s me,” you said bluntly.

 

There was a rather long pause on the other end of the phone. “Murdoc?”

 

“Who the fuck else?”

 

“Hi.” She yawned. “I missed you.”

 

“Of course you would. Kong’s probably awful quiet without me.”

 

“Yeah, I guess so. Russel came back a while ago, and he’s pretty quiet and calm like usual. And 2D came back a week ago and he’s...well...changed.”

 

“Changed?” you asked. “What do y’mean, ‘changed’?”

 

“I don’t know how to explain it,” she said. “It’s complicated. Are you on your way home?”

 

“I don’t have money for a plane ticket, Noodle. I’m trapped in Mexico with no goddamn money. Hell, I was even in prison for almost two months because I wrote out some fake checks.”

 

“Who did you need to make out a check to?”

 

“A bunch of prostitutes.”

 

You heard her snicker quietly. “You’re so gross.” She paused. “I mean, I could buy you a ticket for a flight tomorrow morning and you could get home by Wednesday.”

 

“Really?”

 

“Yeah, I’ll do it right now, actually. I’ll email you the link to where you can print your boarding passes. You still have your passport, right?”

 

“Of course I do.”

 

“Here, I just bought it. First class, too. You owe me.”

 

“I don’t owe you shit, Noodle. I literally haven’t seen you in two years.” You coughed. “Your English is great. Where’d you pick up on that?”

 

“It’s a long story. I’ll explain when you get home. You should really go to bed early, Murdoc. Your flight’s at 8, your time.”

 

“Alright, poppet,” you said. “See you on Wednesday.”

 

“See you,” she echoed, and promptly hung up.

 

You sighed, and settled down on one of the many couches draped in satin sheets. “You,” you ordered, snapping your fingers at the woman (Trixie?) who had managed to completely undress during your phone conversation. “You want to have another go before I leave tomorrow?”

 

“Mudsie, you’re leavin’?” Her eyes widened. “Why?”

 

You pulled her onto your lap and kiss across her jawline. “Gotta go home, pet. Back to the band.”

 

“Write me a song, bassist man,” she purred, sliding her hands underneath your shirt. “Make it a real nice one.”

 

“How should it go, luv?” You shooed Cortez off of your shoulder and remove your shirt, making sure to leave on the cape.

 

“Dunno,” she replied, placing your hands onto her breasts. “Somethin’ fast and upbeat.”

 

“I like the sound of that,” you crooned, pulling her closer and slamming your lips into hers.

 

Her hands slid lower and you went completely numb. _Don’t fuckin’ touch me get your hands off me leave me alone I’m Murdoc Niccals and you can’t hurt me-_

 

You shoved her off of you rather aggressively. “What the hell?” she asked. “What’s wrong with ya?” She then noticed your shaking and the nervous look in your eyes. “Mudsie…” Her voice trailed off.

 

She took your hand in hers and rubbed the back of it gently. “Oh Mudsie, what did they do to you in there?” You just sat there and blankly stared at her. “Murdoc. If ya don’t want to fuck it’s alright.” You nodded and blinked back the tears that were pressing in the corners of your eyes, threatening to spill.

 

Trixie (?) redressed herself and went back to lounging across the front desk. “There’s a spare room in the back if ya wanna sleep until ya gotta leave tomorrow.” She reached into one of the desk drawers and tossed the room key at you. “Here.”

 

You took the key and dragged your few belongings behind you towards the room. “Mudsie?” you heard Trixie call. You looked back at her, and she said. “I’ll never forget ya.”

 

“I will,” you muttered under your breath as you walked to the spare room, Cortez flapping behind you.

 

The remainder of your night was uneventful, filled with lack of sleep and a bit of alcohol. Your departure from the brothel and to the airport was equally as boring. The flight itself, however, was very bumpy and you threw up (due to both the bumps and your hangover). You really hated flying. When you were a teenager, you went through a rebellious phase and you had threatened to steal your father’s booze money and use it to buy a plane ticket so you could fly to “anywhere other than this shithole house”. Your father had then promptly sat you down and told you, in vivid detail, what dying in a plane crash was like, and how being the sole survivor of one was worse. Ever since that conversation, you had always been anxious on flights.

 

But now here you are, sitting in a decrepit taxi you had hired to drive you from the airport and back to the studio.

 

“This is it?” the driver asks, glancing at the looming Kong Studios up on the hilltop. “Pretty big place you got.”

 

“Yeah,” you say gruffly, handing him a handful of crumpled notes. “It’s nice, ain’t it?”

 

“You could say that,” the driver replies, flipping through the notes. “Well, anyways, have fun back at home. Hope you had a great vacation.”

 

 _Vacation._ You snicker to yourself. That certainly was one word to describe your Mexican prison experience. “Oh, it was bloody amazin’.” You grab your belongings and exit the taxi, slamming the passenger side door shut forcefully. You walk up the steep slope of the hill, looking around in multiple directions to check for any stray zombies. You had almost forgotten they were there.

 

Soon you find yourself at the familiar door, and you stay still for a bit. You were about to see Noodle and Russel again. About to see _him_ again. What were you going to say? The last time you saw them, Noodle was a child, Russel was pissed at you, and 2D was being throttled by you. You exhale loudly, and make sure to put up your facade of overdramatized confidence. You don’t dare to think about what they would say if they found out what you had to go through. You know it would all be fake smiles and sappy pitying glances.

 

You ring the doorbell.

 

The door opens and Noodle lets out an excited squeal. “Murdoc!” she shrieks. “You’re here!”

 

“Muds is back?” Russel lumbers into the doorway behind her. “Good to see you.”

 

You grin. “Of course I’m back,” you say. “Prison can’t contain me. I’m Murdoc fuckin’ Niccals, baby!”

 

Noodle giggles. “Come in, have a seat, set your stuff down!” You follow her into the studio and plop down on the couch, relishing in the familiar relaxing feel of it. “Want something to drink?”

 

“I’ll have some whiskey.” She rolls her eyes. “The place looks pretty much the same. Unfortunately less messy, though.”

 

“I was the first one back, so I tidied up and wrote a new album for us to record.” Noodle tucks a piece of hair behind her ear. “It’s called Demon Days.”

 

“Wicked title, poppet. I love it.” You pat your shoulder so Cortez, who was lurking atop your suitcase, can perch upon it. You pull a piece of meatball out of your pocket, and feed it to him. He horks it down loudly, making gross noises and tipping his head up to ingest the meatball more easily.

 

“I think he’s choking.” Noodle gestures to the bird. “He’s cool. Where’d you get him?”

 

“Found him in prison. Someone was goin’ to eat him, I think. So I saved him and we formed an alliance. And when I busted out, he came with me.” You gently massage Cortez’s throat to help him swallow better. He spits the meatball out onto the rug, and hops down from your shoulder to peck at the meatball rather angrily.

 

Noodle laughs. “I like him. He’s a funny bird.” She then perks up. “Oh, hi 2D! Look who’s here!”

 

You get to your feet, and look at him. His hair is slicked back, and his shirt is off, exposing his bony chest. You notice a few new scars across his side, and you count them silently, a tiny part of you wishing you could reach out and touch them.

 

“Hi, dullard.” Your voice suddenly seems very quiet and you feel extraordinarily small.

 

“Oh, it’s you,” he says contemptuously. “I thought you were gone forever.”

 

“What, you thought I’d just _leave_?” You feel yourself start to become angry.

 

He shrugs, pouring himself a cup of water and taking a sip. “I dunno. You were gone for a while.”

 

“ _A while_ ain’t forever, faceache. You can’t get rid of me that easily.”

 

He frowns. “Damn,” he says. “I wish I could. It was a lot nicer around here without you.”

 

“Surrre,” you snap. “I’m the glue that holds this bloody band together. Without me this band would have never even fuckin’ existed.”

 

If it were a few years ago, 2D would have agreed and frantically apologized, clinging onto your arm and burying his face into your shoulder tearfully. But it was not a few years ago, what Noodle had told you on the phone was correct, and all 2D did was _laugh at you._

 

“Oh, please,” he retorts. “Which one of us is the pretty-boy frontman? That’s right, I am. I’m the face of Gorillaz! Everyone looks at me and swoons. Everyone looks at you and vomits in their mouths a bit.”

 

Your fist connects with his face. “Shut the fuck up, faceache. I don’t know where you got this idea that y’were better than everyone else, but news flash, you’re not. You’re just a stupid and useless portrait of patheticism and all you’re good for is is your voice.”

 

He winces, and you can’t tell whether it’s from your words or your punch. But his cocky grin returns to his face, and he takes another sip of water. “All you’re talkin’ about is what you are, Murdoc.”

 

You hit him again, hard enough for him to drop the cup of water onto the floor. The glass shatters everywhere. “Now look what you’ve done,” he snarls. “You broke the fuckin’ cup. Good job.”

 

“How is this my fault?” you protest. “I’m tryin’ to be cordial with you for once and you’re actin’ like an arse.”

 

2D says nothing, just glares at you, too proud to admit that he didn’t know what cordial meant.

 

“I bet you missed me, didn’t you?” you growl, your voice getting lower. “You probably cried after I left.”

 

“In fact, I was happy when you left! All you do was hit me and yell at me, and I don’t like it!” He folds his arms, leaning against the kitchen table.

 

“Does it look like I care what you like or not?” Your voice drips with venom, and you slap him again, hard. It leaves a bright red mark against the side of his face, and he rubs it gingerly, flinching at the sting.

 

“You don’t care about anything,” he combats. “You’re heartless.”

 

You step forward to respond angrily and possibly shove him into the table, and that’s when you accidentally step in the broken shards of 2D’s water cup. “Bloody hell,” you hiss, sinking into the chair next to him.

 

He starts laughing. “You’re an idiot,” he declares, taking a seat on the kitchen table and swinging his long legs up onto the table as well.

 

“Oh sure, _I’m_ the idiot,” you retaliate, struggling to pull the broken glass out of your foot.

 

“Right! You _are_ the idiot!” His arrogant smile is a mile wide. “Look at me when I’m talkin’,” he adds. “Oh wait, you can’t see with your dumb hair in your eyes.” He reaches over and sweeps your fringe out of your eyes. “There we go.”

 

“Fuck you,” you snarl, your heart pounding at how close his face is to yours.

 

He smirks. “If that’s what you want,” he responds nonchalantly, and that’s when he pulls you up into his arms and his mouth slams into yours.


	20. The Serpentine and the Sad

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)
> 
> enjoy some angsty dick sucking. 
> 
> also thank you guys for 3000+ hits!!! we’re in the top 100 2doc fics on the site now!!!
> 
> luv u all,  
> mouse

Your name is Murdoc Niccals, and you are kissing 2D. Rather, 2D is kissing you.

 

You really didn’t expect him to kiss you. He seemed to be extremely upset at you, seeing that he dared to hurl a bunch of insults at you before causing you to step on broken glass. But 2D, you’ve started to realize, is becoming just as unknowable as you.

 

He breaks away first, shamefully looking downwards. “M’sorry, Murdoc, I shouldn’t have-”

 

You quickly cut him off. “Faceache?”

 

“Yeah?” His eyes are wide and his face is flushed.

 

“Don’t fuckin’ apologize,” you snarl, and drag him out the door and down the long (and painful due to your unfortunate glass situation) path to your Winnebago, the sexual tension between you two nearly visible.

 

You throw open the door to your Winnebago and lock it behind you. Turning to face 2D once more, you notice that he’s already sprawled out on his back across your bed, his gaze longingly fixated on you. “Murdoc,” he whines, stroking his own bare chest. “Please.”

 

Suddenly the broken glass in your foot doesn’t seem to hurt anymore.

 

You climb atop him, straddling him, and you run your hands across his chest. Your hands reach up and graze his nipples, feeling them stiffen beneath your touch. You pinch one and he arches his back, letting out a squeaky gasp. Grinning, you continue to roll the delicate bud between your fingers and eventually switch once it gets all irritated and red.

 

You let go, and he leans forward and kisses you again, his fingers twisting in your greasy hair and tugging gently. His tongue tangles with yours and you can feel his hard-on as his hips rut against yours.

 

“You’re so goddamn skinny, dullard,” you mutter, pulling away and lowering yourself to kiss each of his prominent ribs, relishing how he shakes every time your mouth meets skin.

 

“What, like your body’s any better?” he retorts, a snarky smile forming on his lips.

 

“Of course it is,” you answer, unclipping your cape and discarding it on the floor. Your shirt soon follows suit, and immediately his hands reach up to touch you, his fingers sliding across your collarbone, and ghosting down over your nipples. He gives a gentle tug on your upside-down cross pendant, and it sends a shiver through you that settles straight in your groin.

 

His hands travel downwards, tracing your happy trail and stopping at your waistband. He looks up at you questioningly. “You first,” you say, pushing him back down onto the bed again. He fumbles at the button of his jeans and yanks the zipper down, tantalizingly exposing more and more skin as he slides them off his body and tosses them into a pile of dirty laundry on the floor.

 

“Gorgeous,” you murmur. “So fuckin’ gorgeous.” He blushes at the compliment and arches his hips towards you, his erection painfully obvious. “All hard for me, are ya?” You squeeze the swell in his briefs and he moans. Smirking, you trace circles over it, your smile widening as his hips shakily thrust up against your hand.

 

“Murdoc,” he sobs, his overconfident facade faded and his whole body trembling. “Don’t tease.”

 

You cup his tear-streaked face and plant a tiny kiss on his forehead, flashing him a mock-caring look. You chuckle darkly and then pull his briefs down, exposing all of him.

 

He truly is a pretty thing, you think. Pretty little face, pretty little body, pretty little dick. “So it is blue everywhere,” you purr, and he glares at you.

 

“Really?” he says, rubbing the tears away with the back of his hand. “Shut up, Murdoc.”

 

“You shut up,” you reply. “Oh wait. You don’t need to shut up when I can just leave you speechless.” And with that, you remove your jeans and your briefs, ceremoniously tossing them onto the floor.

 

“That was cliche,” he announces, his gaze fixated on your dick. He then looks back up at you. “Can I touch?”

 

You nod, and his skinny fingers wrap around you, stroking your shaft with care. Your eyes flutter shut and your breath catches in your throat. How long has it been since you’ve had this, _since you’ve had this and wanted it_? Your muscles shudder with every precise movement of his hand and your heart twists painfully at how kind and gentle he’s being with you. And all you can think about is how you don’t deserve him.

 

He then lowers himself down to pepper soft kisses across your dick, and your hips twitch against his mouth.

 

You really can’t help but admire his beauty. His eyebrows are furrowed in concentration, his mouth a small frown in between kisses, and his gentle pianist fingers touching and caressing you with such precision and caution, as if he’s scared to break you.

 

If it were anybody else, you would have grinned and said you weren’t made of glass, you weren’t going to break. You would have told them go faster, go harder. But 2D is not everybody else, and for once you find yourself appreciating how careful he is. Because you know after all the shit you went through, it would take a bit of time for you to be able to be handled roughly with no issues.

 

You are shaken from your negative thoughts when he stops kissing you and his mouth drops down onto your dick.

 

You were not expecting him to be so bold. You also were not expecting him to be so _good._ This definitely was not his first time doing this.

 

So you just close your eyes again, and decide to give in to pleasure. You feel his gums rub against you through his tooth gap and you begin to fluidly roll your hips into his mouth, your hands twisting in his soft blue hair and pulling him further down onto you until his nose is buried in the coarse tuft of pubic hair around the base of your dick.

 

With every thrust of your hips he sucks harder, and you find yourself seeing stars. Your heart is pounding and your breaths grow shakier and shakier and just as you’re about to warn him, you convulse and release into his mouth.

 

He pulls off of you, coughing and sputtering, and eventually swallows. “Could’ve told me,” he says, wiping his mouth. “Next time give me some warning first.”

 

“Next time?” You raise an eyebrow and smirk. “Who said anythin’ about next time?” You then notice how he’s still hard, and your smirk grows bigger.

 

Sitting up, you reach over and begin to pump his dick, eliciting a surprised squeak from him. He frantically starts thrusting his hips into your hand, his head tilting back and his mouth slack, his pretty face all flushed and his eyes half-lidded. He whines out your name a few times, and it sends a painful pang through your heart. You turn your head away from him bitterly and attempt to block out the sweet noises he’s making. But you listen anyways as his breaths grow more and more erratic with every thrust and he eventually releases with a loud moan all over your hand.

 

You wipe your hands on the sheets of your bed, not caring about the mess it’ll leave, and lean back against the pillows on the bed. 2D crawls over to you and curls around your body, wrapping his long arms around you and pressing his face into the back of your neck. You are not usually one to bask in the afterglow of sex, but it’s 2D, so you let him stay. But only because you hadn’t seen him for so long.

 

And then he says it: “Sometimes I think I love you, Murdoc.”

 

You have made a myriad of excuses for him tonight, but that is just unacceptable.

 

“Get out.”

 

He blinks, confused. “What?”

 

“Leave. Get your clothes on and get the fuck out. Y’had to ruin it, didn’t ya? Y’had to ruin it.” You shimmy out of his grasp, and pull your cape off the floor, wrapping it securely around your body.

 

“But, Murdoc, I-” You quickly shut him up with a hard slap to the face.

 

“Do I have to make myself clear, faceache? Go away. Leave me the fuck alone.” You shove him off the bed and turn your back away from him. “Leave me alone.”

 

“No, Murdoc, I wanna stay.” He reclothes himself and takes a step forward. “Please let me stay.”

 

And so you hit him. And hit him. And hit him. Until he’s trembling on the floor, blood pouring out of his nose. “Now leave.”

 

He shakily exits, and you can hear him start to cry once you slam the door shut behind him.

 

There’s broken glass in your foot right now but compared to everything else, it feels a little like heaven.


	21. The Melancholic Reflection On Murdoc Niccals

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey guys! sorry for the late update, i’ve been busy with finals. 
> 
> anyways, for those who have figured out which chapter is going to come next, i’m so sorry. prepare the tissues and the dark chocolate. you’ll need it bwahahaha
> 
> love you guys soooo much!!!

Your name is 2D, and Murdoc Niccals broke your heart.

 

It hadn’t been the first time he had hurt you. He’d punched you and slapped you a countless amount of times, so many, in fact, that you had stopped counting the days it happened a long time ago.

 

He stole Paula from you, and then Rachel. He led you on, goaded you into kissing him and touching him and letting him touch you. And you just kept on allowing it to happen.

 

“Love ain’t supposed to hurt. Why’s it hurtin’ so much?” You had asked him this twice: once after Paula and he had shagged, as he lay on the bathroom floor with blood pouring out of his nose. You had closed your eyes and pretended not to hear his soft whispered apology. And the second time, after Rachel had broken up with you and you had huddled in the corner of the club, tears streaking down your cheeks. He had held your face so gently in his hands and kissed you desperately, as if you were his oxygen, as if he needed you to survive.

 

Fuck Murdoc Niccals. You almost fucked Murdoc Niccals. Rather, Murdoc Niccals almost fucked you.

 

You know he would have, had you not stopped him the first time. He would have been so gentle, so careful. So _loving_. It brings a bitter taste to your mouth. Murdoc Niccals didn’t love you. Murdoc Niccals didn’t know how to love at all.

 

He ignored you for a week after after the night of his return. And that hurt most of all. In a morbidly twisted way, you were addicted to his attention like it was your painkillers. You began to constantly pick fights with him just to feel his touch, even if it was through a slap to the face or a punch to the gut.

 

It sickened you to see how he seemed to be fine, so perfectly fine without interacting with you. Of course, you were forced to interact in band practice, but when he spoke to you, it was curt and short and deprived of any emotion. But you and he were still in the same room together, and that was what mattered most. The accidental brushing against one another, the occasional eye contact made during a song.

 

During one band practice, you realized how grateful you were to have eyes like yours, eyes with practically invisible pupils. Eyes like yours allowed you to watch Murdoc unnoticed as he played his bass, your heart painfully skipping a beat as you memorized the concentration mapped across his face when he played. Sometimes, as you watched his fingers pluck each string with a careful precision,  you imagined what it would be like having those fingers interlaced between yours. Sometimes you imagined those fingers elsewhere.

 

The tricky thing with loving Murdoc was that it was like loving a hand grenade. On nights when you’d feel extra bold, sometimes you considered shuffling out to the Winnebago and talking to him. You and he never spoke at night anymore like you used to. Both of you knew very well where it would lead to. But you never dared go out to try, because you never knew if he would pull you into his arms or if he would scoff at you and stub his cigarette out against your arm.

 

A month passed. You filmed the music video to Dirty Harry, and you pretended not to notice how, towards the end of the video, he stared at your half-naked body, his eyes traveling up and down your scrawny frame. Instead, you decided to point out how he gave a small slap to one of the children afterwards, knowing it would get underneath his skin just like he got underneath yours (but in a different way you tried so hard not to enjoy). You insulted him in the interviews, growing more and more smug by the day.

 

But at night, when you were in the privacy of your own room, you peeled off that overworked facade of cockiness that you once had, the facade that was once your real self before Murdoc came back. You would touch yourself, imagining that his hands were on you, caressing you with the same care as he held his bass. As you released, your vision always seemed to blur with tears. You truly were a pretty little portrait of patheticism. All for someone who hurt you.

 

However, he had a few moments of kindness here and there. You had once woken up around 2 in the morning from a nightmare, and had gone to the kitchen to get a drink, when you already found a piping-hot mug of your favorite peppermint tea waiting for you. You pretended not to notice the silhouette of him curled on the couch, and especially pretended not to feel his gaze focused on you.

 

Another time you had run out of painkillers and were suffering from one of your migraines, and he had sat at the foot of your bed on the phone, ordering you more of your precious pills. He had then put a cool wet washcloth on your forehead and stroked your hair softly until the pain lessened enough for you to fall asleep. When you woke, there was no trace of him ever being there. You may or may not have hallucinated that incident. You still don’t exactly know.

 

One evening, you and Noodle order a pizza, and are sitting on the couch watching a movie. “I think Murdoc has changed a bit,” she announces.

 

“Why d’ya say that?” you ask.

 

She shrugs, taking a bite out of her pepperoni slice. “He is ruder to you. He also seems to drink more and hide in his van a lot more.”

 

“He always does that, Noodle. Russ says he’s like a homeless person.” You pick the cheese off of your pizza. You were considering going vegan and cheese was unfortunately off the menu for you.

 

“I believe something happened to him while he was gone.” She accidentally drinks your soda instead of her water and grimaces.

 

You snicker at her drink mishap. “What do y’mean?”

 

She lets out a sigh that you have learned to mean she suspected something she didn’t want to say aloud. “I don’t think jail has been kind to him, let’s just say that. Sometimes things happen that change us inside.”

 

“Like what?” You internally cringe at how innocent and naive you sound.

 

“Bad things,” she says, wrapping her arms around you and squeezing tightly. “Things that make you grieve.”

 

You hug her back. “I hope nothin’ bad ever happens to you, Noodle. You don’t deserve it.”

 

She smiles. “Thanks, 2D. I hope things become better for you.”

 

“Me too,” you reply softly, getting up from the couch and abandoning the pizza and the movie.

 

You return back to your room, and lay back on your bed, staring up at the cream-colored ceiling. And like all nights, you try to suppress those feelings of sorrowful longing, but they just don’t go away. _Love ain’t supposed to hurt. Why’s it hurtin’ so much?_

 

If loving Murdoc is this painful, maybe you just don’t love him at all. In fact, you’ve never felt so hurt in your whole life.

  
That is, until _tomorrow_.


End file.
